tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21747687817142430912017-09-22T12:08:57.405-07:00Gray MatterDoughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-41370213450203662932017-09-21T08:05:00.000-07:002017-09-21T08:05:03.940-07:00Did the new iPhone nail it? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for photo of metal nail" class="_WCg" height="120" id="uid_dimg_2" src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" style="margin-left: -4px; margin-right: -6px;" title="https://pixabay.com/en/metal-nails-steel-metallic-950169/" width="180" /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><br /><br /><br />Bob Dylan told us in 1964 that "The Times They Are A-Changing." &nbsp;Little did he know.<br /><br />When the iPhone 8 debuted this week, I thought of the time, which seems like yesterday, when my wife and I upgraded to the 6S Plus which was just after &nbsp;the 7 hit the shelves. &nbsp;You might ask why we didn't just jump straight to the 7.<br /><br />Well, we didn't feel like we had a right to skip the 6. &nbsp;We were 5 users for a couple or three years and it just didn't seem proper to totally leapfrog the 6 because of the glitter and glimmer of the new 7. &nbsp;Actually we were 5S owners, which made us a little more special than the just-plain-5 owners. &nbsp;Plus we wanted to give 3D touch a try as well as experience android size in an Apple product. &nbsp;After all, IOS is IOS by any other name.<br /><br />Time out.<br /><br />If you followed the last two paragraphs, if you had no trouble with the lingo, then you're either 1) young or 2) a savvy Apple middle-ager or mature citizen. &nbsp;And, if you didn't follow the lingo, that doesn't mean you aren't young and/or savvy. &nbsp;Or age-advanced and hip. &nbsp;It may simply mean that you are a Samsung or other android afficionado <i>or</i> you like a flip to your phone and don't plan in this lifetime to upgrade beyond your trusty Nokia or your CD player.<br /><br />Anyway, stuck at the Verizon store, sitting around waiting for the new phone to upload around 45 gigs of information of mysterious value, &nbsp;I reflected on my first brush with &nbsp;technology.<br /><br />It's 1974 and my company has a promotion. &nbsp; Never one to shun a little healthy competition, I gave it my best effort and managed to win. &nbsp;A congratulatory letter arrived letting me know to expect my prize in the next few days. &nbsp;Early the next week, a package appeared on my desk. &nbsp;Opening it, I found this little plastic thing-a-majig with square numerical keys on the front and the brand name "Casio" emblazoned above a tiny, rectangular translucent screen. &nbsp;I scanned the instruction booklet and discovered that I had won a "digital calculator." <br /><br />What a machine that little fellow was! &nbsp;What a miracle. &nbsp;You could multiply, divide, add, subtract, figure the square root...there was no end to what this item barely larger than a pack of cigarettes could do. &nbsp;Truly pocket sized!<br /><br />Understand that I was a child of a generation that utilized mechanical cash registers the size of dorm refrigerators. &nbsp;If you plunged downward on three cumbersome keys, three tin rectangles would pop up in a glass enclosure to record a $1.38 sale. &nbsp;(And if you are one of the handful of people who actually can visualize that, then you are old...really old.)<br /><br />What had the world come to? &nbsp;This was surely the invention of the century and certainly the end-all to long-winded mathematical solutions. &nbsp;No more carrying the two in your multiplication or adding a decimal point and a zero in your long division. &nbsp;This little know-it-all did it all. &nbsp;The answers were displayed magically via <i>liquid crystal display</i>, another miracle, allowing you to do little tricks when bored, like entering 7,7,3,4,5 and turning the calculator upside down to spell an oil company.<br /><br />However...that little miracle worker today would be about as exciting to the tech world and the demanding, technologically advanced consumer as a common nail. &nbsp;Yep, about as intriguing as post-it note. &nbsp;Nearly as engaging as &nbsp;paper clip.<br /><br />Back at the Verizon store, fanning ourselves when quoted the price of the 6S, the rep reminded us that we weren't buying phones, we were buying computers. &nbsp;He cocked his head, arched his left eyebrow, &nbsp;and asked us what our computers at home could do that this iPhone couldn't. &nbsp;I searched for a witty reply that would smack the supercilious grin from his face but came up blank.<br /><br />We left the store with heavier pockets and lighter wallets.<br /><br />But, strangely, when I return to that day in 1974, I'm convinced that I felt a great deal more satisfaction, excitement, and awe over that early edition calculator than I do over the next great smartphone. &nbsp; I can't help but believe that there was some understated beauty in that simple time of technological naiveté. &nbsp;That slice of time when you didn't worry over having enough storage-ready gigabytes or exceeding your plan's monthly data quota. &nbsp;When Macintosh was just a very tasty apple and Microsoft sounded like a new, improved brand of fabric softener sheets. &nbsp;When "you've got mail" meant that you could see the postman closing your mailbox door before heading for your neighbor's. &nbsp;When twitter was what your heart did when you fell in love. &nbsp;Again. &nbsp;And when the BeeGees sang "I've Gotta Get a Message to You," the last thing you thought about was thumbing away at a qwerty keyboard.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2174768781714243091" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>But the common nail? &nbsp;Anything but common. &nbsp;That little fellow is pretty diverse all on its own and has gone through many more transformations and variations than the iPhone. &nbsp;And with a birth date around 3400 B.C., it certainly a much more colorful history. &nbsp;In &nbsp;early America, they were so coveted that folks would burn down abandoned houses just to salvage the nails. &nbsp;Hopefully we won't be doing that for smartphones. <br /><br />And, finally, there's the existential side of the nail. &nbsp;I read once that nails are secured in objects by the laws of friction. &nbsp;And they can endure the secured object's force due to their sturdiness. &nbsp;These are times when we humans could certainly benefit from the nail's simple lesson. &nbsp;With everything that comes at us daily, with all the friction that we create upon ourselves and allow others to create within us, we could all use a little more nail-liness. &nbsp;We could all learn to sturdy up a little bit more, huh? &nbsp;Can't manage that with an iPhone, can we? &nbsp;Look at those things the wrong way or apply too much friction and the screen cracks or the battery explodes.<br /><br />So ignore the title of this blog. &nbsp;It's silly. &nbsp;But here's to the pocket calculator and the good, old nail. &nbsp;Raise a glass to their simplicity, honesty, and ingenuity. &nbsp;May they ever have a secure and calculated place in our history and our hearts. &nbsp;And in these times that are a-changing, may we never, ever allow modern technology to slowly invade and dominate every phase of our lives.<br /><br />Now excuse me while I search for a strong wi-fi signal to publish this post and attach it to my Facebook page. <br /><br />OMG!!! Tell me I just didn't say that....😕<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-77821700684215200692017-08-15T11:39:00.000-07:002017-08-15T11:39:04.504-07:00The Finder of All Things Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Close Up of Keys" data-pin-media="https://images.pexels.com/photos/333837/pexels-photo-333837.jpeg?w=800&amp;h=1200&amp;fit=crop&amp;auto=compress&amp;cs=tinysrgb" height="213" src="https://images.pexels.com/photos/333837/pexels-photo-333837.jpeg?h=350&amp;auto=compress&amp;cs=tinysrgb" style="background-color: #2d2b2b; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;" width="320" /></div><br /><br /><br />I lost my keys last week. &nbsp;Or maybe I should say I misplaced them. &nbsp;They have a designated drawer in the kitchen and they weren't there. &nbsp;I believe it's an "age thing" though I have to admit that I have a life history of losing things. &nbsp;I guess you might say that I've always been a little forgetful and sometimes not all that keenly focused.<br /><br />When I was a kid, most everything I lost was critical to my immediate happiness. &nbsp;When you're a kid, your beloved possessions are few and to lose one is usually a big deal. &nbsp;I remember misplacing my favorite marble when I was in the second grade. &nbsp;Admittedly, I can't remember yesterday's lunch but I have a crystal clear memory of losing my light blue cat's eye shooter. &nbsp;My number one prized marble that rode in the right-hand pocket of my bluejeans wherever I went. &nbsp;I was pretty sure that it was hiding somewhere in our front yard. &nbsp;After dividing the yard into grids and walking those grids a dozen times, I finally did what I always did in stressful situations such as this. &nbsp;I asked God to help me. &nbsp;It wasn't a prayer per se...more like a mental request: &nbsp;Dear God, I know you have much more important issues to deal with, but if you have an extra minute or two, would you please help me find my marble. &nbsp;And I promise I'll do a better job keeping up with it.<br /><br />It always worked. &nbsp;I say "always." &nbsp;And to my recollection, it always did. <br /><br />I found my prized shooter that day and, as far as I can recall, I did take extra steps to safeguard it until the time that playing marbles became secondary to learning to "walk the dog" on my brand-new, shiny Duncan Imperial.<br /><br />Back to last week and my vagrant keys. &nbsp;I don't know about you, but trying to find something lost, or misplaced, &nbsp;pretty much dominates my thoughts until it is found. &nbsp;And I don't care to recall the number of times I've donned latex gloves and reallocated bag after bag of kitchen trash. &nbsp;Some fresh and some not so fresh. &nbsp;I'm not sure why that's one of the first places I always look. &nbsp;It just is. &nbsp;But, anyway, guess what? &nbsp;After exhaustive searches throughout the house and along the path from the car to the house and back a few times, it was time to turn to the Finder of All Things Lost once again. &nbsp;So, in the way that has changed very little from the time I was seven, I asked God to help me find my keys. &nbsp;I had no sooner dispersed that little request to the stratosphere when it occurred to me that there might be a good chance that the keys ended up in <i>a</i> kitchen drawer but not the <i>correct</i> kitchen drawer. &nbsp;I hustled into the house and opened a drawer next to the sink (the tape and scissors drawer to be exact) and voila! &nbsp;There sat the keys.<br /><br />The biggest difference between God directing the finding of lost things when I was a kid and now as an adult is that God insists on sending a little life lesson along with His assistance in recovering the misplaced item. &nbsp;Sort of a celestial fortune cookie. &nbsp;And this one revealed that God actually enjoys finding lost things, especially when that which needs finding is a whole person. &nbsp;Or a broken person who needs to be whole. &nbsp;I can't even come close to counting the number of times He's found me over the years. &nbsp;Whether I was hiding or had simply lost my way, eventually God showed up with His big flashlight to direct me home. &nbsp;Thank goodness the single stray is just as important as the properly placed ninety-nine.<br /><br />There's a touch of irony in all of this. &nbsp;I think I've been much more comfortable asking God to find marbles and keys than I have been asking to be found myself. &nbsp;I wonder if that's just me or if that holds true for many. &nbsp;I wonder if many of us are hesitant to ask for help on a large scale. &nbsp;But it doesn't matter. &nbsp;He's there when you need Him and nothing is to small or too large when it comes to finding what is lost. &nbsp;Marbles, keys, or your way. &nbsp;The Finder of All Things Lost is always on duty.<br /><br />And, you know, when I really get to thinking about it, maybe things and people aren't really lost in the first place. &nbsp; Maybe they've just managed to end up in the wrong drawer.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-32633378790892975442017-08-03T11:24:00.002-07:002017-08-04T01:57:21.527-07:00Weedeating<br /><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a 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BByF/Wsa2fj0hpPoY6hpakfw0v5kGbuNP6Uu/H8NFjMk8mGIDIwxxxRNJwWI3OahnYEBqqQebqthQGlbf3ouhGynGK4gsgcCQZ7UaiSUuyli1G29OXCkoMDFegpl5RFPTN1bPH0xwKXsi9GISWAGqhGjbZRqYtA7GZkq3WyO2az/AKlJxXRFXss6Jt7pJx2PevOSlo0PWVJYs48UMkzGux9FGcDnHFFgzjJ3dxMx6b8AUyi6Bs4qSGTEhxUpFTzqGpwocwqSxS55qTiNccaD09diNgGOMVtcG1ZjE7Y49Nl+10jhG1s1oy8SnkAvroYlSwoX3oIjZM63uFlfjHNYn1DkxksQxVFjC7j3Wn3FYIcs06fdBhvFciRdqEf1kuAPaKuuiTKa5Z9OQuvimIP4J0SlqLhxwapIJVJB/9k=" title="http://garden-photos-com.photoshelter.com/gallery/Blue-Flowers-Plants-Stock-Photos/G0000mwORcfAukJ8/" width="133" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Weedeating is one of those handful of jobs that evokes an inordinate amount of dread but returns an inordinate amount of satisfaction. &nbsp; If you've done it, you know what I mean. &nbsp;If you haven't, then you'll just have to take my word for it.<br /><br />The sort-of dreaded day and hour to check the line, fill the tank, poke at the primer bulb, and pull the starter cord arrived this past Tuesday at the farm. &nbsp;I felt a little like a soldier headed for battle as I marched from the serenity of the back porch with the weedeater slung across my shoulder and a red plastic gallon of mixed gas dangling from my hand.<br /><br />I admit that the day was pitch perfect for weedeating. &nbsp;Overcast, decent humidity, and early enough that the heat-up of the day had yet to commence. &nbsp;So I began. &nbsp;About an hour into the job and in the middle of a particularly tough patch near the barn, I looked down and spotted a single sprig of blue flowers that had pushed its way out of the ankle deep growth of barnyard grass, broadleaf plantain, and bull thistle. &nbsp;Pretty little things, they were a blue somewhere between the sky and my momma's eyes, each bud no bigger than the end of your little finger, and simply bursting with hope and enthusiasm. &nbsp;A virtual oasis of sight upon an otherwise unforgivable terrain.<br /><br />I failed to mention that one of the perks of weedeating is the ability to put your mind in neutral and let the thoughts flow. <br /><br />When inspired. <br /><br />As by something as simple as a tiny bunch of flowers.<br /><br />And I thought that what I was seeing here in this snapshot moment of time embodied pretty much how I was viewing the world less than 24 hours before. &nbsp;When I had the misfortune to be on Facebook, reading a few of thousands of comments of some totally unforgettable subject or discussion that had caught the interest of nearly everyone. &nbsp;I suppose when I indulge my seedy side, it's like watching a train wreck in slow motion. &nbsp;I simply can't look away. &nbsp;You know what I mean. &nbsp;When half the world is on one side and the other half takes the other side and the bickering builds to all-out verbal atomic warfare.<br /><br />We are so divided as a nation - as well as a globe - that I sometimes wonder why the sun bothers to rise in the morning. &nbsp;The ugliness! &nbsp;Has mankind always been so hateful and social media has just given us an opportunity to really notice it? &nbsp;Or is this something that we have become over the last several years? &nbsp;I really don't know the answer but I'm talking an exchange of spewing, acidic hatred and evil words and thoughts that I never imagined could, or would, exist.<br /><br />And it happens all the time.<br /><br />But that's the weeds: &nbsp;the crabgrass, the hairy bittercress, the Johsongrass, the redroot pigweed. &nbsp;The spewing disdain, the vomitous scorn, the malice and contempt. &nbsp;The weeds that are a real threat to our virtue and our humanity. &nbsp;Humanity that is eons in the making. &nbsp;Virtue that we developed through generation after generation of trial and error.<br /><br />Choking, smothering, unforgiving weeds.<br /><br />But that little sprig of blue flowers? &nbsp;That's hope. &nbsp;That's proof that beauty can co-exist among any volume of hate. And proof that the beauty that does co-exist can overcome that hate and stand on its own. &nbsp;Beauty that says, "Hey, look...I'm right here. &nbsp;I'm right here in the middle of any amount of nastiness you can create. &nbsp;I'm God's gift to the world and I will not be ignored! &nbsp;I am here <i>in spite</i> of all else."<br /><br />And it's true. &nbsp;That splash of beauty in the middle of that jungle of worthless ugliness is the only thing I noticed. &nbsp;And it lifted me up. &nbsp;And it reminded me that the world is what we wish to make it. &nbsp;Like in that long exchange of condemnation and hatred in that Facebook post the day before, someone had posted a simple red heart. &nbsp;An "I love you." &nbsp;No other words...just the emoticon. &nbsp;And it was as effective as that one spurt of blue flowers in the middle of all that stinging nettle. &nbsp;The heart, and not the words that swamped it, was what gave me pause.<br /><br />As long as just one of us is willing to find the beauty, all of us have a chance.<br /><br />And, in case any of you are wondering, yes I did. &nbsp;I carefully weedeated around those tiny blue flowers while virtually annihilating into oblivion every last weed in sight. &nbsp;Atoms of green exploding into the atmosphere. &nbsp;Satisfying disintegration of the highest order.<br /><br />It was a very, very good day.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-47757734039258002262016-12-30T12:04:00.000-08:002016-12-30T12:16:52.141-08:00Anniversary<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jDnPJwq5Lo4/WGa9FpkxF9I/AAAAAAAAAfY/TkwC0r8Wq9Mc0u3ExV0HlFkKAxSc-ANxgCK4B/s1600/IMG_0917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jDnPJwq5Lo4/WGa9FpkxF9I/AAAAAAAAAfY/TkwC0r8Wq9Mc0u3ExV0HlFkKAxSc-ANxgCK4B/s320/IMG_0917.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">"Anniversary Song" was written by Steven Digman, a gentleman about whom I know little, other than he wrote an amazing song that was recorded at some point by Eva Cassidy. &nbsp;This I know about Eva Cassidy. &nbsp;She has one of the most spectacular voices I've had the pleasure of hearing. &nbsp;And that she died in 1996 at the age of 33. &nbsp;In, as they say, relative obscurity. &nbsp;Her voice, her interpretations, her pacing...all of it...enchant and captivate. &nbsp;Hers is a voice you hear not only with your ears but also with your heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">As this year dissolves into melancholy vapors and the new year staggers toward us like a newborn colt, I'm grabbed by the thought that we all are experiencing another anniversary. &nbsp;A day I put much more value upon than I do other significant days, including birthdays. &nbsp;Though we all simultaneously (time zones excepted) experience the end of one year and the beginning of another, that experience is as unique as stars, or grains of sand, or snowflakes. &nbsp;Simply put, we individually own each anniversary. &nbsp;We personally inherit a fresh beginning. &nbsp;And though we mourn those people in our lives who didn't make this particular anniversary event, we cannot help but celebrate the enormity of the opportunity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">The chorus of "Anniversary Song" goes like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">I never thought I'd get this old dear</span></i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Never had a reason to live so long</span></i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">And the Lord's been like my shadow</span></i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Even when I was wrong</span></i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">No I never thought it would turn out this way. &nbsp;</span></i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Though compelling, the words alone don't do the song justice. &nbsp;Eva's voice and the music which accompanies her, however, form unforgettable art. &nbsp;That said, these words have stamped themselves on my soul. &nbsp;The writer is said to have commented: &nbsp;"Not being a religious man myself, I still think that if you live long enough, into your seventies, then God must have been there somehow." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Now I don't deign to suggest that Mr. Digman meant something other than what he said, but here's what I hear. &nbsp;What I hear is that the older you live, the easier it is to recognize God's hand in your life. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;times&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">I wonder how many of us thought it would "turn out this way?" &nbsp;Whatever way that is. &nbsp;I'm going to guess there have been some unanticipated twists and turns in your life. Along with those times when you pause and contemplate how you got to the place you find yourself today and consider the question: &nbsp;how in the world did I get here? &nbsp;</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;times&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">But here is what I like about one year ending and another beginning, this fresh anniversary and the blessing to be able to experience it: &nbsp;we have a fresh opportunity to rewrite the way it turns out. &nbsp;Not the whole book, the entire story, all the verses of the song. &nbsp;But a chance to grab a fresh sheet of paper and go in the direction of our choosing. &nbsp;To pick up where we left off and plot a new adventure.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;times&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Amazing, no? &nbsp;And here's the real kicker, we have that opportunity every single day...to re-route our own history. &nbsp;To redirect our own future. &nbsp;I just happen to think that on the most unique day of the calendar, the one that begins as one year and morphs into another, there is extra impetus to do so.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;times&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Forget the resolutions. &nbsp;When did you ever stick to them anyway? &nbsp;Just plan on getting up in the morning and walking out into the sunshine of the first day of 2017 and celebrating another anniversary. &nbsp;And that shadow you see? &nbsp;Well, I think Mr. Steven Digman would say that it's a reminder that the Lord is right there sticking with you. &nbsp;As close and tight as He can get. &nbsp;Even when you're wrong.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;times&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;">Happy New Year, folks. &nbsp;And a very happy anniversary to you.&nbsp;</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/MEzYCQ6dZNo/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MEzYCQ6dZNo?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div><br /></div>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-29060208104755076642016-12-20T17:02:00.001-08:002016-12-20T17:02:26.963-08:00Merry Christmas, brother....<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXO9JqN8rCI/WFnUfggbA8I/AAAAAAAAAeI/WEyNCu6acrMzeMW56Wx2Eb35zmLCAd1NACK4B/s1600/Scan%2B25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXO9JqN8rCI/WFnUfggbA8I/AAAAAAAAAeI/WEyNCu6acrMzeMW56Wx2Eb35zmLCAd1NACK4B/s320/Scan%2B25.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />I sit in the den of our 200 year old farmhouse and look out the window, across the front porch, past the old well house, through the trees in the lot that once was an orchard, and I spy the cabin he built a dozen years ago. &nbsp;Its red tin roof is bright and cheerful even in the grey overcast of a mid-December day. &nbsp;There is no one home. &nbsp;It was sold this past July to some folks from Nashville who use it and the surrounding riverfront acreage as a get-away. &nbsp;I breathe in the silence, then hold my breath, seeing but not hearing the only movement in my line of vision, ice melting and running in drops off the eaves above the porch. &nbsp; And, except for the plaintive cry of a stray calf, temporarily separated from its mother, the cold, wintry silence thaws the past and feeds my thoughts.<br /><br />I like to believe that I am temporarily separated from my brother who once clomped &nbsp;around the wide porch of that red-roofed cabin. &nbsp;A man who was often larger than life and whose voice would carry over the several hundred yards between his place and ours. &nbsp;And I miss that voice, sometimes in an excruciatingly acute fashion. &nbsp;A similar timbre of voice was about the only thing we shared as adults, but he was my brother and I loved him every single day of his life.<br /><br />I think of him at different times. &nbsp;Though we seldom exchanged cards, I remember him on June 28, his birthday. &nbsp;Whenever talk turns to fishing, I think about how his face would tighten into a smile and his eyes would dance at the thought of heading to the banks of the Elk River with a rod and reel and a can of night crawlers. &nbsp;When my wife and I take one of our trips to the panhandle of Florida, I think of the times he and his wife loaded up their dogs and a couple of cats and headed to their place on St. George Island. &nbsp;For weeks at a time. &nbsp;He was most at home there, I believe. &nbsp;Something about the rhythm of the ocean and blue skies and golden sun. &nbsp;He took to all of that. &nbsp;He grew bananas, of all things.<br /><br />And, of course, Christmas. &nbsp;Not recent Christmases but the Christmases of long ago when we were boys and he was truly my little brother. &nbsp;When he would sit in his footed pajamas, mesmerized by the bubbling lights and shimmering tinsel on the Christmas tree. &nbsp;How he would tiptoe around until he spied his name on a gift. &nbsp;And, if no one was looking, he would lift it and shake it, taking a stab at what might be inside. &nbsp;When I was ten and he was five, I intrigued him with stories of Santa Claus and how I was pretty sure that if we stayed up late enough on Christmas Eve, we would finally catch old Santa sneaking into our house with a bagful of presents. &nbsp;I cautioned him to the risk, however, of getting caught. &nbsp;We always shared a bedroom and it wasn't hard to convince him that any thud in the night were reindeer hooves on the roof. And how in the world could he say that he hadn't just heard what was most certainly sleigh bells. &nbsp; I would tell him to close his eyes tight and pretend he was asleep so Santa would make sure to stop. &nbsp;And I would close mine.<br /><br />On Christmas morning, I couldn't remember who had fallen asleep first. &nbsp;But we leaped from our beds at the same time and slipped quietly into the living room. &nbsp;I recall in those times I received a great deal more joy watching him discover his Santa bounty than I did discovering my own. &nbsp;My brother had a way of exhibiting delight that I just never got the hang of. &nbsp;So, on those Christmases long ago, I claimed my delight through his. &nbsp; I piggybacked on his joy. &nbsp;And it grew my love for him.<br /><br />This coming February he will have been gone two years. &nbsp;There wasn't even time to say a really decent goodbye. &nbsp;And though missing him hasn't eased up much, I take solace in what's available. &nbsp;If you've never heard the the Sarah Darling song "Knowing What I Know About Heaven," I'd suggest you give it a listen. &nbsp; So when my mind insists on trying to bring my brother back, when I want to reverse time and make things turn out differently, when I want to imagine that the cancer hadn't found its way to his body, or when I want to wish him back to the porch of his cabin or settled comfortably on the banks of the Elk with his voice harmonizing with the sounds of the flowing river, &nbsp;I think about the lines of that song.<br /><br />"Knowing what I know about heaven<br />Believing that you're all the way home<br />Knowing that you're somewhere better<br />Is all I need to let you go.<br />I could hope that I could pray you back<br />But why on earth would I do that<br />When you're somewhere life and love never ends<br />Knowing what I know about heaven."<br /><br />Who knows? &nbsp;Maybe there are Christmas trees in Heaven - I see no reason why there shouldn't be - and they are strung with miles and miles of brilliant bubble lights and glinting tinsel reflected in the faces and eyes and smiles of my brother and everyone else who has made that celestial journey. &nbsp;I mean, what better place to celebrate Christmas than Heaven? &nbsp;And, as much as I miss him, I wouldn't pray him back from that ultimate bounty of everlasting life and never-ending love. <br /><br />But, you know what, doggone it, it sure would be nice to hear that sweet voice one more time.<br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-78414774412227113162016-11-20T08:34:00.000-08:002016-11-20T08:35:51.828-08:00The tree that almost wasn't<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QAxMQva2UdQ/WDHEUMXMjCI/AAAAAAAAAds/iNtN8_jXqJcQbh1eSeXSu2_R3JbVjVU3QCK4B/s1600/IMG_6794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QAxMQva2UdQ/WDHEUMXMjCI/AAAAAAAAAds/iNtN8_jXqJcQbh1eSeXSu2_R3JbVjVU3QCK4B/s320/IMG_6794.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BTQcmpWERWI/WDHEVvUhpnI/AAAAAAAAAd0/ZvBOvkLeYxoiKSx4ggoFKIQKdqF_IPvKACK4B/s1600/IMG_6795.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BTQcmpWERWI/WDHEVvUhpnI/AAAAAAAAAd0/ZvBOvkLeYxoiKSx4ggoFKIQKdqF_IPvKACK4B/s320/IMG_6795.JPG" width="240" /></a><br /><br />My favorite tree almost wasn't. &nbsp;When a tornado ripped through the center of our farm in April, 2014, trees were the favorite targets. &nbsp;Countless numbers were ripped from the earth, twisted at their roots like corkscrews, or broken in half by the F4 winds. &nbsp;Hundreds of them, having thrived more than a century on this earth, were destroyed as easily as you would snap a toothpick in half.<br /><br />One small tree at the edge of the yard was cracked in half by the winds, splintered a few feet from its base, the upper part &nbsp;nearly destroying a hundred year old shed. &nbsp;A track hoe removed the large upper half from the shed and I added to my to-do list taking my chainsaw and putting the pitiful remains out of their misery.<br /><br />Fortunately, my to-do list fell a few items short of done. &nbsp;And at some point weeks later, all tornado clean up work stopped and everyone just rested for awhile.<br /><br />Days became weeks and weeks became months and so on. &nbsp;Before you could turn around a year had passed, it was spring again and guess what? &nbsp;That little piece of tree, left for dead and sentenced to a burn pile, started sprouting new limbs. &nbsp;And weeks later, the buds on those limbs became leaves. &nbsp;And then more limbs and more leaves. &nbsp;Impossible, I thought. &nbsp;I mean, that tree was a goner. &nbsp;A splinter. &nbsp;A hopeless shadow of what once it had been.<br /><br />Now, over two years later, it's much more to me than a tree. &nbsp;It's a reminder that nothing is done until it's done. &nbsp;And our minds simply don't have the power to determine that. &nbsp;We are limited to seeing through a glass darkly during our time here on this tiny planet and we are reminded to "set (our) minds on things above, not on earthly things."<br /><br />It's also a reminder not to give up. &nbsp;To have hope and to have faith. &nbsp;And when that hope and faith blossoms, new worlds open up.<br /><br />And, finally, that little tree continuously reminds me that regeneration is always possible. &nbsp;Rejuvenation. &nbsp;Redemption. &nbsp;Resurrection on all levels. &nbsp;Even at our lowest times, when winds of fortune have turned ugly and rendered disaster, tragedy, or devastation, there is hope. &nbsp;Or even when there's just a malevolent breeze that blows us about from time to time, knocking us down, pushing us off course, there is recovery. &nbsp;There is reinstatement of our more vibrant, more confident former selves. &nbsp;There are new seasons and new beginnings.<br /><br />Next spring I'm looking for my favorite tree to be even taller and fuller and stronger. &nbsp;Who knows? &nbsp;It might even have a nest of birds.<br /><br />I think I would feel like a grandfather.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-49248820985578519552016-11-17T13:02:00.002-08:002016-11-19T07:47:19.318-08:00An open letter to Million Women's March on Washington<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2174768781714243091" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2174768781714243091" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2174768781714243091" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><br /><div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2174768781714243091" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5beoZGWzoUw/WC4e2LY9N0I/AAAAAAAAAdc/Napy1XCYGWMBQHiJmFZvd-kXATFL1qazQCK4B/s1600/Unknown-5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5beoZGWzoUw/WC4e2LY9N0I/AAAAAAAAAdc/Napy1XCYGWMBQHiJmFZvd-kXATFL1qazQCK4B/s400/Unknown-5.jpeg" /></a></div>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Getty Images Topical Press Agency</span></i><br /><br /><br />Dear Ladies of the March:<br /><br />So...I'm hearing that January 21st is cooking up to be a big day, huh? &nbsp;I guess no small number of you is going to journey to our nation's capital to protest. &nbsp;Multiple issues, I hear. &nbsp;Lots of problems. &nbsp;Rampant disrespect. &nbsp;I should tell you, though, that I'm a little suspicious it has more to do with who didn't win our latest presidential election than you might want to admit. &nbsp;But that's neither here nor there and there's no need for us to get off on the wrong foot. &nbsp;Today, it's called the "Women's March on Washington." &nbsp;A few days ago it was "Million Women's March." &nbsp;Stay tuned. &nbsp;A lady definitely has the prerogative to change her mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay...I could be so tongue-in-cheek here that I would pierce through the inside of my mouth right through to my stubbled jaw. &nbsp;I don't think that would get me anywhere, however, so I'm going to try to practice a little restraint. &nbsp;But when I read that "the past election cycle has insulted, demonized, and threatened many of us...", I'm thinking that the whole thing is getting off to a start that appears to lean heavily on hyperbole. Demonized? &nbsp;Really?? &nbsp;Also, those for whom this gathering is in the name of are "women, immigrants of all statuses, those with diverse religious faiths particularly Muslim, people who identify as LGBTQIA (when did we add those extra letters?), Native and Indigenous people, Black and Brown people, people with disabilities, the economically impoverished and survivors of sexual assault." &nbsp;Talk about inclusive!</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem is: &nbsp;who's not on this list? &nbsp;I can certainly claim more than a passing interest in several of those categories. &nbsp;So, why not just march for everyone who's afraid? &nbsp;Everyone who has truly suffered injury and injustice. &nbsp;Even everyone who has had their feelings hurt in their life because someone said something. &nbsp;Everyone who has ever been boxed out of the mainstream for whatever reason at whatever time. &nbsp;Hey. &nbsp;It's everyone, folks. &nbsp;Every blasted one of us. &nbsp;At some point and time in our lives, to some extent, we all have been on the outside looking in. &nbsp;It's called life.</div><div><br /></div><div>You say you want to "send a bold message."</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, guess what...</div><div><br /></div><div>You will.</div><div><br /></div><div>You will send a bold message to this nation and the rest of the world that this is the most divided this country has been since the Civil War. &nbsp;You will send a message that says we are a frightened nation. &nbsp;You will send a message that we don't respect, honor, or support our democratic process. &nbsp;(Yes, you will! &nbsp;I won't let you argue that!) &nbsp;And that we are a nation that assumes our leadership is going to fail before that leadership has a chance to perform.</div><div><br /></div><div>You will send a message that says we are weak.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your message will be heard loud and clear and our allies will wonder what happened to the America that they aligned with and identified with for generations. &nbsp;Through several wars. &nbsp;In good and bad times. &nbsp;That strong America who took on all the bullies and backed down for nothing or no one.</div><div><br /></div><div>And your message will resound deafeningly to our enemies who never in a million years believed that the United States could become so fractured and so disorganized and discombobulated and so...so...ugly.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>And so very ripe for the picking.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the media, folks, is already drooling rivers. &nbsp;If you thought they liberally spun the election news, watch this. &nbsp;They'll spin this march on Washington like Linda Blair's head in "The Exorcist."</div><div><br /></div><div>So organize your gathering, your march, whatever you want to call it. &nbsp;I know that it will draw folks from sea to shining sea. &nbsp;From L.A. to Tampa. &nbsp;From those tiny islands of blue counties that looked so pitifully awash in the sea of red on the election maps. &nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot fathom the millions and millions of dollars that will be spent and the millions of hours that will go into the planning and organizing and executing. &nbsp;Individually and institutionally.</div><div><br /></div><div>Listen. &nbsp;Just a little advice. &nbsp;Consider it a travelogue of sorts.</div><div><br /></div><div>While you're in Washington, drop by 700 Pennsylvania Avenue. &nbsp;That's the National Archives and it houses our Constitution including the First Amendment upon which you will be operating while you're in D.C. &nbsp;Then you might cruise by the Capitol and call on your representative to Congress. That's the person who best can help you get this all done. &nbsp;And save you any future trips and expenses in trying to move our government in a direction you find more personally appealing. &nbsp;And less injurious. &nbsp;Because you can march till you drop but if your Congressional representative isn't tuned in, it's all for show. &nbsp;(And I'm sure you're not doing it for show.) <br /><br />While you're at it, take a peak at the Lincoln Memorial. &nbsp;Look closely at Mr. Lincoln's face and you might just see a tear on his cheek (some folks think it's a mole) not for what this country has become, but for what you want to make people believe this country has become. &nbsp;And President Lincoln had a phrase for what you are promulgating: &nbsp;"A house divided against itself cannot stand." &nbsp; And whether you support Mr. Lincoln's ideology or not, he certainly knew about divided houses.</div><div><br /></div><div>And, finally, before you car, bus, train, or fly your way home, take a short ride to Arlington Cemetery and have them put you out at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. &nbsp;That brave, anonymous soul who eternally represents everyone in the military who has ever died for the United States of America. &nbsp; Then, in the breathtaking silence, gaze over the acres of tombstones that grace in perfect symmetry that hallowed ground . &nbsp;Those people fought some pretty nasty enemies, many of the same ones who are going to be glued to their televisions watching you on your day, January 21, 2017. &nbsp;And those enemies are going to nod and smile and hope for the continuing unravelling of the fabric of this great nation. Whether there are a million or two million or more of you, they will cheer you on like you are marching in the Olympics.</div><div><br /></div><div>So look at it this way, you've already got billions of supporters and you haven't even bought your comfy walking shoes yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>And you know what? &nbsp;I highly doubt that a single soldier lying beneath that Arlington soil suited up and shipped off to fight for a certain skin color, a particular sexual orientation, a specific religion, or any special class of human beings. &nbsp;I'm pretty sure that when they took their bullet, they took it for the United States of America and the great and diverse population within its borders. &nbsp;They took it for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry to be blunt but you're already hurt and scared of just about everything, so I don't think I've caused any additional harm. &nbsp;And since you're going to be in Washington anyway....</div><div><br /></div><div>One last thing: &nbsp;if you decide to stay home that day, you might consider erecting an American flag in your yard. &nbsp;You might take the money you are going to spend on your Washington trip and donate it to a homeless shelter or a Veterans organization. &nbsp;Or any local charity, for that matter. &nbsp;You might invest all that planning and organizing time into going to a VA Hospital or a battered women's shelter, or an elementary school short on funds and giving them your time and energy. &nbsp;You might attend some diversity and inclusion meetings and add your level of expertise to the group. &nbsp;You might write a check to the Red Cross to help those thousands of women and children devastated by war, natural disaster, and genocide. &nbsp;Those who have truly been, to use your word, demonized.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep. &nbsp;You could do any of those things. &nbsp;Or you might just go ahead and have your march. &nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Whichever, God bless you and keep you safe. &nbsp;We may disagree but we are all Americans. &nbsp;I love my country and I love you and look forward to the day we are all in the same house. <br /><br />Now get out there and get those comfy marching sneakers.<br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-13588886442986754632016-11-11T08:26:00.004-08:002016-11-11T08:33:19.001-08:00On this Veterans Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Gi58BA9yITQ/WCXw8hWpapI/AAAAAAAAAdM/t3BG8Zw8y589dM-4XjrOSwmc0321LDG7gCK4B/s1600/Dad%2BWWII%2Bpic%2Bb%2Band%2Bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Gi58BA9yITQ/WCXw8hWpapI/AAAAAAAAAdM/t3BG8Zw8y589dM-4XjrOSwmc0321LDG7gCK4B/s320/Dad%2BWWII%2Bpic%2Bb%2Band%2Bw.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>"These GIs could not be let down. This was neither the time nor the chance for tactical fencing. The "Lost Battalion" had to be rescued, the German threat to the Yank breakthrough smashed, at any cost.</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Thus, on the bright, hot afternoon of August 10, 1944, with magnificent daring, doughboy-laden tanks spearheading the 320th Regiment's attack barreled up the road directly into the powerful positions of the Wehrmacht's elite.</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Out of 55 tanks 31 were knocked out in a few hours of furious fighting.</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>But the Nazi grip on the Mortain redoubt was cracked.</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>In the bloody and confused struggle which continued on throughout the night and next day many units of the regiment themselves became lost or surrounded, the attack disorganized.</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>During the following night, under the flares of the Luftwaffe, the remaining men of the 1st and 3rd Battalions were reorganized, combined. At dawn the infantrymen, without the aid of armor, stormed Mortain and the crest of the ridge, seizing both. The Lost Battalion was rescued, its wounded cared for by all the medical resources of the regiment.</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>The Battle of Mortain, the most dramatic in the 320th's combat record, exemplifies the regiment's relentless style of fighting, the driving power that has been used with four armies in five countries and has been called upon continuously from Normandy through Bastogne to the east bank of the Elbe. The 320th and her superb comrade regiments, the 134th and 137th, form a division - the 35th (Santa Fe) Division - whose record of achievement in the European campaigns ranks with the best."</b></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">This is an excerpt from The History of the 320th Infantry Regiment, outlining a battle during WWII as US troops attempted to wrestle France out of the hands of the Germans.&nbsp; My father, John Loyd Gray, was wounded and taken prisoner of war on August 11, 1944.&nbsp; I always wondered what he was going through that day because he spoke so sparingly of it.&nbsp; Except to say that the Germans intervened by taking his bleeding and broken body to a hospital in Paris where German doctors labored to save his limbs and his life. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Irony at its best.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">He was one of those doughboys on foot inches from the tracks of those huge, clamoring tanks, plodding&nbsp; courageously forward, one foot in front of the other.&nbsp; A small piece of ground at a time.&nbsp; From one hedgerow to the next. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Until a machine gun ripped his legs out from under him and he fell wounded into the mud and blood- thousands of miles from home.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Veterans Day couldn't have come at a better time.&nbsp; While Americans are marching in the streets protesting the election process that defines our republic, while people are kneeling or sitting through our national anthem, while our country quivers and quakes in the throes of an enormous divide, Veterans Day provides a reminder of what it took to get here in the first place.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">My father was a 19 year old rural American (we've heard about those rural Americans these last few days) when he volunteered to fight for his country.&nbsp; By the time he was 21 he had two Bronze Stars, a Purple Heart, and battle scars.&nbsp; About the age of so many of the youngsters marching in the streets of cities, towns, and on the campuses of universities around this country.&nbsp; They can thank him and every other combat soldier, men and women, for giving them that right to march.&nbsp; They can thank him and all soldiers of the past for sacrificing part, or in some cases all, of their lives for the right to protest the very thing that defines us as a free nation.&nbsp; They can thank everyone who has spent their time or their blood in our military securing the greatness of this nation we call the United States.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I don't have any astute prose to offer here.&nbsp; Just facts.&nbsp; Just a piece of history.&nbsp; And an undying sense of pride for one man in particular, my father, for having the courage to defend all that we hold sacred.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">And I can't help but feel a little disgusted at those who disrespect those sacred things.&nbsp; But my father would forgive you and my Father forgives you, so I guess that it will just have to be alright for me.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; min-height: 17px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Thank you, Dad.&nbsp; And believe me, I'm trying to do right by you.</span></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="dr8kh" data-offset-key="e31p9-0-0" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"></div>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-28370837693400440242016-09-27T06:09:00.003-07:002016-09-27T07:57:39.636-07:00Horizons<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #29aae1; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">Horizons</h3><div class="post-header" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><br /><div class="post-footer" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 1.5em 0px 0px;"></div><br /><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-6873577725604728176" itemprop="description articleBody" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: auto; position: relative; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; width: 586px; word-spacing: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BMcIYHihye4/VEVs6Cu4t3I/AAAAAAAAAUI/fWglPn2IICI/s1600/IMG_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #015782; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BMcIYHihye4/VEVs6Cu4t3I/AAAAAAAAAUI/fWglPn2IICI/s1600/IMG_0319.JPG" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kX-9ai-tEvg/VEV-JI_M7lI/AAAAAAAAAUU/MIV61o91TYc/s1600/IMG_0359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #015782; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kX-9ai-tEvg/VEV-JI_M7lI/AAAAAAAAAUU/MIV61o91TYc/s1600/IMG_0359.JPG" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 20px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">I look out this morning to find a horizon drawn by God's straight-edge. &nbsp;Put a level on it and the bubble would be right square in the middle...I'd bet on it. &nbsp;Ocean horizons are defined and dependable. &nbsp;They are predictable. &nbsp;They are set and unchangeable.<br /><br />No they're not.<br /><br />It's estimated that a six foot tall person with his feet firmly planted in the sand will be able to see out to sea for three miles, and then the earth will rudely curve itself out of the picture. &nbsp;Should he climb the lifeguard tower, the horizon moves out to around five miles. &nbsp;From the patio of a Gulf front condo-say on the 10th floor-the ocean's horizon gets really gnarly, somewhere close to twelve miles out.<br /><br />Where, pray tell, is this all going? &nbsp;Well, we'll just keep poking at it and see what pops out.<br /><br />Let's start with Robert Browning, a 19th century English poet, married to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, a bit of a fox if I may say so. &nbsp;And it was from inspiration of that foxy lady, I suppose, that spawned the lines: &nbsp;"Grow old along with me! &nbsp;The best is yet to be." &nbsp;From another work, he gives us: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?"<br /><br />As I sit here immersed in the white noise of the waves, fifty yards from the slow boil of the tide in the Gulf of Mexico, perched some forty feet above the beach, my horizon teases me from a distance of eight miles. &nbsp;When, last evening, I stood at ocean's edge, I was limited to a panorama of three miles. &nbsp;(And, by the way, if you wondered why you had to suffer through the scribblings of Pythagoras in high school geometry, you can't get to these numbers without his theorem.)<br /><br />But let's keep going. &nbsp;In order to gain that extra five miles to the brink of the horizon, I had to do work. &nbsp;I had to experience some level of accomplishment. &nbsp;And that accomplishment came at some sacrifice. &nbsp;In the most basic sense, I had to drag luggage and food and every Apple device ever created up a couple of flights of stairs and stow all of it in the condo. &nbsp;I distinctly remember sweating. &nbsp;Profusely. &nbsp;Shouldn't be a big deal but when Bobby Browning invited us to grow old with him, I'm not sure that he was doing a ton of step climbing. &nbsp;At a secondary level, I had to work for many years and do the correct things around planning for the future so that one day I would be able to meet the financial obligations of a week on the Gulf coast. &nbsp;Not exactly up to the standard of challenges faced by Warren Buffet, but something beyond a Christmas savings account at the local bank. &nbsp;Regardless, let's be honest...we're still at the most basic level of meeting obligations and being even remotely diligent.<br /><br />I could stair-step us right along at this point, but I think I'll just get to it. &nbsp;Our horizon is nothing more than our reach. &nbsp;And no matter who we are, we do have the ability to reach as far as we possibly can. &nbsp;Sometimes we choose to reach...I mean really stretch it out there...and sometimes we simply decide to go for only that which is within arm's length. &nbsp;It's our choice. &nbsp;That simple.<br /><br />So the question is: &nbsp;is there really a discernible difference between seeing three miles of emerald green and agate blue versus eight miles? &nbsp;I mean, the sea is the sea, isn't it?<br /><br />Well, my answer is yes. &nbsp;The sea is the sea. &nbsp;And, yes. &nbsp;There is a difference. &nbsp;You can continue to climb after your legs buckle, you can choose to reach higher and longer, you can fight harder, and you can maintain a death grip on every foot...every inch...that you attain. &nbsp;Because that extended horizon means a few more precious seconds of that delicious sunset - that melting ice cream sundae overflowing with cherry and strawberry sky and whipped cream clouds. &nbsp;It's being able to see that magnificent ship steaming eastwardly six miles from shore, the ship that's not even a figment of your imagination when you limit yourself to three miles of horizon. &nbsp;You have another zillion gallons of emerald sea for your eyes to relish before it meets that bank of clouds along God's razor-fine straight-edge. &nbsp;It's the opportunity for another drop of satisfaction, another small bite of life...one more verse of your favorite song.<br /><br />In the end, when you find yourself blessed to have lived a life that has recognized the value of conscious, dedicated effort, that is a gift in itself. &nbsp;The bonus is that prolonged reach being rewarded by an extraordinary grasp that we pray we will find a way to be worthy of.<br /><br />I watch two seagulls breakfasting in the foam of the ebbing tide. &nbsp;The breeze has picked up, ruffling the feathers of a persnickety blue heron. &nbsp;The casual dining partners skitter back and forth devouring random treats. &nbsp; Their horizon, according to Pythagoras, is less than a mile. &nbsp;Poor birds. &nbsp;Much less then a mile. &nbsp;But, after a while, when they take wing with full stomachs and wet, sticky feet, they climb the currents of the sea breeze with amazing ease. &nbsp;Higher and higher they go, until they are two indistinct dots against the blazing blue sky. &nbsp;And I think, my God...they have the power to create an endless horizon - no limits, no ending! &nbsp;And I believe it is just that, my friends, that Robert Browning was referring to when he said that the best is yet to be. &nbsp;And, yes, yes, yes. &nbsp;That is what a heaven's for.</span><br /><div style="clear: both; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></div></div>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-10273963675257172282016-09-25T07:29:00.002-07:002016-09-25T07:35:21.323-07:00Word of the Day<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xyHhpzX9txg/V-feWqYoKvI/AAAAAAAAAc8/CwZwLsMbvNoyam2FlBphhc105WKpehXBACK4B/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xyHhpzX9txg/V-feWqYoKvI/AAAAAAAAAc8/CwZwLsMbvNoyam2FlBphhc105WKpehXBACK4B/s200/Unknown.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Photo from Audubon.com<br /><br /><br />This morning, &nbsp;the Word of the Day on my Dictionary.com app buzzed its way into my life. &nbsp;Just a tiny vibration and an almost inaudible purr. &nbsp;But a word that sent my muse scurrying in demanding that I compose a few words.<br /><br />My, but this word is unforgivably coincidental, if I believed in coincidences, &nbsp;seeing that I'm sitting on a screened porch, listening to small waves breaking, breathing salty air, and watching seagulls line up for seafood brunch on the unapologetic white sands of the Gulf of Mexico.<br /><br />The word? &nbsp;Albatross. &nbsp;Al-ba-tross. &nbsp;And though I'm not sure of the shared DNA between said albatrosses and said gulls, they look pretty similar to a landlocked bloke such as I.<br /><br />But as you know, we don't really conjure up the bird when we think of albatross. &nbsp;Unless we picture it hanging around our &nbsp;straining necks.<br /><br />Dictionary.com tells us that an albatross is a noun that is "a seemingly inescapable moral or emotional burden, as of guilt or responsibility" or "something burdensome that impedes action or progress." <br /><br />You know, we're in a day where "no news is good news" rings pretty darn true. &nbsp;We have seemingly unbridled global terrorism. &nbsp;We have civilians shooting civilians, police shooting civilians, and civilians shooting police. &nbsp;We have a partisan divide unequalled in my memory and this partisan divide appears to be driven by mutual disgust and distaste for the "other party" candidate. &nbsp;We are divided on so many fronts that we're going to have to invent new fronts upon which to be divided. &nbsp;We have what is, in my opinion, a rip in our societal seam that threatens the entire garment of the republic. &nbsp;We have hate, fear, and anger wrapped in one great big ball.<br /><br />We have, folks, around our collective necks, an albatross of pterodactyl proportions.<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge writes in "The Ancient Mariner:"<br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;">Ah&nbsp;! well a-day&nbsp;! what evil looks</span><br style="color: #252525;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;">Had I from old and young&nbsp;!</span><br style="color: #252525;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;">Instead of the cross, the Albatross</span><br style="color: #252525;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;">About my neck was hung.</span></i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;"><br /></span></i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;">"Instead of the cross...". &nbsp;Things that make you go, "Hmmmm."</span></span><br /><br /><br />I'm not ashamed of my fellow Americans. &nbsp;That would be prideful. &nbsp;It's the whole "he who is without sin" thing. &nbsp;If I am ashamed of my fellow Americans, that would mean that I stand in judgment of them. &nbsp;And God help us if someone of my ilk were to stand in judgement of anyone or anything. &nbsp;I have no business even picking up a stone, much less casting it.<br /><br />What <i>am</i> I? &nbsp; What are my feelings? &nbsp;What are my emotions?<br /><br />Well, I suppose that there is an exact word I could use, but I'm not sure that I can find exactness here. &nbsp;I'm alarmed. &nbsp;I'm disappointed. &nbsp;I'm concerned. &nbsp;And I'm a little scared. &nbsp;Wait, strike that. &nbsp;I'm too old to be scared. &nbsp;I think a better word might be "anxious."<br /><br />I don't like posing issues and concerns without remedies. &nbsp;But I have none. &nbsp;In today's familiar parlance, that's above my pay grade. &nbsp;In fact, I have to question whether there is a solution. &nbsp;I suppose that all problems, simply by being problems, have solutions, so my hope is that there is a person or people out there who can put us right again. &nbsp;I'm thinking that whatever the solution is, it's going to take time. &nbsp;Lots of time. &nbsp;A couple of generations maybe.<br /><br />I think of the seemingly endless plight of the Israelites. &nbsp;About as soon as they had things figured out and found their way back to God, something was already percolating to shove them back into the same predicament they had just gotten out of. &nbsp;Such a cyclical thing. &nbsp;And, who knows? &nbsp;Maybe our current societal ills have occurred before - perhaps many times before - and I'm just not a studious enough historian to know that. <br /><br />What I do know is that I will pray everyday for America. &nbsp;I will pray that we will mend our rips, sew up old wounds, stabilize the foundation this country was built on, dispel negative rhetoric and angry words, and find a way to symbolically join hands in the spirit of unity.<br /><br />I will pray that we will find a way to remove that gargantuan albatross necklace from our stiff necks and walk unimpeded, unprejudiced, and with pride.<br /><br />In another coincidental non-coincident, yesterday's Word of the Day was cackleberry. &nbsp;Not nearly as compelling and thought-provoking as albatross, but certainly an honored member of our lexicon. &nbsp;And it begs the question: &nbsp;what came first, the albatross or the cackleberry.<br /><br />Come on. &nbsp;Look it up if you need to. &nbsp;I did. &nbsp;And, you know, &nbsp;just maybe you'll have something to smile about today. &nbsp;And that, just maybe, might be the start of something good. &nbsp;Something really good.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-53844902217004167402016-08-11T10:54:00.001-07:002016-09-25T06:04:37.690-07:00Beware the Blob<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Z732humwqM/V6zzF7DmA6I/AAAAAAAAAcU/GjzlzeS-FY0ZR0hJHXTiUVI7JgL_oSG6QCK4B/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2Z732humwqM/V6zzF7DmA6I/AAAAAAAAAcU/GjzlzeS-FY0ZR0hJHXTiUVI7JgL_oSG6QCK4B/s400/Unknown-4.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The gang I ran with is on the seventy side of sixty. &nbsp;Most of our dreams either came true, didn't quite make it, or split the difference. &nbsp;And maybe the time is near to pull the plug on those that didn't. &nbsp;While comfortably basking in those that did. &nbsp;But age and dreams aside, I like to think about those freckled, sunburned, sweaty, jeans-clad years of my youth. &nbsp; In fact, I have a friend that, every time we get together to chew on the past, &nbsp;remarks how great it would be to have a do-over, &nbsp;just one day, to relive a snapshot out of times gone by. &nbsp;Just a day to go back and wallow in all that was, without a solitary thought of all that wasn't or would be. &nbsp;One more visit to the old neighborhood and find ourselves astride bulky, single speed Schwin bikes, dodging the familiar cracks and faults in the sidewalks and maneuvering around the rare pedestrian. &nbsp;Trudging one more time with bats and balls and gloves to the vacant lot that was the nexus of our neighborhood to deposit another pint or two of blood, sweat, and tears into the ragged soil of that hallowed ground. &nbsp;Or gather in a gang after supper and choose sides for Kick the Can or Capture the Flag and dash between fireflies and clotheslines in the thick, watery air of a magical July evening.<br /><br />It's okay to say that those were the "good old days" because they were <i>our </i>good old days. &nbsp;Days when the 'hood was a town block, four quiet, small-town streets creating a perfect square of modest houses on tidy lawns. &nbsp;Days when homes were slung open to drop-in company every morning and remained unlocked at night, screen doors slamming with the traffic of neighborhood living, and curtains dancing slowly to the breeze slipping through wide-open windows. &nbsp;Days when all mothers were your mothers, all fathers were equally respected and feared, and friends were more like brothers and sisters than just...well...friends.<br /><br />Days when calls to supper echoed across lawns and slipped through the shade of enormous elms and oaks and mulberries. &nbsp;Days when dogs ran free and gobbled their meals at whichever house they had flopped down near at mealtime. &nbsp;Days when bike crashes and errant rocks brought mothers bustling out of their houses and into the streets armed with towels, bandaids, and mercurochrome. &nbsp;Days when mile wide front porches were oases from the heat of the summer, &nbsp;a sweaty glass of ice water was a indescribable delight, and heaven was sipping a chocolate milkshake at the drugstore counter the day the latest Superman comic came out.<br /><br />And in these current times, these difficult times of division, polarization, and raging battles of differing preferences and perspectives, &nbsp;I can't help but recall the odd excitement of the presidential election years of my youth. &nbsp;When the candidates were both good, solid, trustworthy folks and they talked about what needed to be done to make sure that our country did the things that showed respect and garnered respect nationally and internationally. Things that improved the lives of all Americans. &nbsp;Things that manufactured hope for the future. &nbsp;They kissed babies and shook hands, even with each other, and instilled a sense of safety, security, and prosperity even in us snotty nosed kids. &nbsp;And when our parents and neighbors talked about their preferred candidate, they did it quietly and with respect. &nbsp;Mock elections were held in school (I think Nixon held a slight edge over Kennedy) and I don't remember a single case of yelling or screaming or fighting or even a modicum of anger, regardless of who came out on top. &nbsp;Election nights were stay-up-late nights, black and white television coverage with totals written and erased and rewritten on chalkboards, truly unbiased anchors reporting the results of each state with a mixture of excitement and solemnity. &nbsp;And the next morning, the sun rose, bottles of milk and cream appeared on back porches like magic, folks headed to their jobs, and we had a new president. &nbsp;And everyone went back to living and working and striving to be good neighbors and upright citizens. <br /><br />So when my friend talks about getting a do-over, just one more trip back down memory lane, &nbsp;I nod and agree and say, yes, what a great thing that would be. &nbsp;And we sit there with our own thoughts and remember those days and those things that still bring us great joy. &nbsp;And make us smile. <br /><br />Times were simpler. &nbsp;Weren't they?<br /><br />You know, they say that "the good old days" are constantly changing. &nbsp;That all the past eventually becomes "the good old days." &nbsp;And I can't completely disagree with that. &nbsp;Or, at least, I couldn't until recently. &nbsp;Until the last several months when it seemed you could hear the fabric of this great country of ours sickeningly rip. &nbsp;When it became painfully evident how polarized we have become as a society. &nbsp;How anger and hate has bubbled its way into our lives like the Blob did in that movie of the late fifties. &nbsp;Some of you remember The Blob. &nbsp; It starred a wall of disgusting gook that grew larger every time it consumed someone or something. &nbsp;It ate houses and farms. &nbsp;It devoured everything in its reach. &nbsp;At one point, it became such a huge mass of destructive gunk that it appeared it would eventually destroy the entire nation...maybe the entire world. &nbsp; Thankfully for us wide-eye, popcorn-crunching and gum-popping adolescents, Steve McQueen discovered that cold stuff killed the Blob and a group of kids armed with fire extinguishers bravely faced it down and froze it. The Air Force flew it to the Arctic and dropped it in the middle of that icy wilderness. &nbsp;The movie finished with a typical "The End," but, this time, it was followed by a question mark. &nbsp;Leaving us all to wonder if maybe one day it might, Lord forbid, &nbsp;return.<br /><br />Is the Blob back? &nbsp;And is it this universal accumulation of hate and rage that we see every time we turn on the television or boot up a social media site? &nbsp;And is it consuming everything in its path and growing to gargantuan proportions? &nbsp;Were these movie makers actually prophets? &nbsp;And, if the Blob was a prophetic warning, can we stop it? <br /><br />Maybe. <br /><br />If we can, it will take more than a group of kids with fire extinguishers, but I do believe that the end to the Blob begins with the kids. &nbsp;Well, actually it begins with us adults ceasing to act worse than kids that know no better and providing them with the appropriate role models. &nbsp;It starts with us taking charge of our individual lives and not being influenced by negativity. &nbsp;It starts with us saying "no more" to each and every faction that wishes to influence us in such a way that is derogatory to us as a peaceful society and a great nation founded on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. &nbsp;It starts and ends with us refusing to be devoured. &nbsp;Refusing to be sucked in by this ravenous monster that disguises itself as the "new norm." &nbsp;And if we can do that, then maybe, just maybe, the current generation can overcome all the raging divisiveness that we are handing them and have a shot at &nbsp;their "good old days." <br /><br />And maybe that's what my and my friend's do-over is all about. &nbsp;It's not about us being able to go back and live a day in that utopia we so fondly recall. &nbsp;It's about doing what it takes for future generations to have their moments in the sun. &nbsp;It's about giving them something equivalent to all the goodness of the days we were blessed with. &nbsp;It's about giving them a chance. &nbsp;It's about giving them something better than a frosty soda fountain milkshake and the latest edition of the Superman comic. <br /><br />Hold on a minute, though. &nbsp;That might be a little tough. &nbsp;Because when I really think about it, &nbsp;I'm pretty sure that there could never be anything better than that. <br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-60C1b2GLcLI/V6zy-hWy9GI/AAAAAAAAAcE/qDlzxwigcc0-Hj-bIMSBPKu7h4FbhDMmQCK4B/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1"></a>But we could certainly try.<br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-57263024509464632362016-06-15T09:26:00.000-07:002016-06-15T09:26:13.267-07:00Margie and the cows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qAEAZThD0o0/V2FubR-22VI/AAAAAAAAAbU/F9oMn2sCRZMVyYB71oBahTcPe442hysGACK4B/s1600/IMG_0669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qAEAZThD0o0/V2FubR-22VI/AAAAAAAAAbU/F9oMn2sCRZMVyYB71oBahTcPe442hysGACK4B/s400/IMG_0669.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br />Margie Gray loved animals. &nbsp;I remember one of her brothers telling me a story many years ago about how when Margie was a little girl, for lack of anything else being available to adopt, &nbsp;she would rummage and dig in the cool, mossy crevices of the spring above the family's cabin until she found a box turtle to make a pet of. &nbsp;Not a lot of pet potential there I would think, but I suppose when you're a little girl in the middle of the country off Lee's Creek, you made do.<br /><br />The photo at the beginning of this blog piece is my favorite of my mother. &nbsp;Hands-down. &nbsp;I don't know what touches me most: &nbsp;her fashion magazine look against a backdrop of borderline poverty, the countenance of absolute rapture that emanates from the two pooches, or the other-worldly glow of my mother's face as she seems to divine the innocence and unconditional love from her pets, routing it up through her heart and out &nbsp;her eyes. &nbsp;Eyes that seem to have found something farther down the road.<br /><br />No one has the perfect life but some fare better than others. &nbsp;Margie Cashion was barely into her teens when her mother passed away after a long, tough illness. &nbsp;The decade of the Great Depression colored her childhood in ways that I'll never know. &nbsp;World War II found her moving to Louisville with her sister Hazel and finding employment at Bowman Field. &nbsp;She met my dad on a blind date during a visit back home, fell in love with a recently discharged soldier, married and built a life.<br /><br />Folks I knew always said that if there was reincarnation, they wanted to come back as one of Margie Gray's pets.<br /><br />Fast-forward forty years and my mother found herself in the role of a farmer. &nbsp;A cattle farmer of all things. &nbsp;And there was the rub. &nbsp;Being an unapologetic animal lover made life tougher than it had to be on a cattle farm. &nbsp;It didn't help that she named each and every calf that was born. &nbsp;Or that she bottle-fed all the calves that found themselves rejected by their mothers. &nbsp;Or the innumerable nights that Margie Gray doctored and nurtured a sick cow or calf back to health.<br /><br />Bonds are great until they must be severed.<br /><br />So, you see, sale days were particularly tough. &nbsp;Getting the calves loaded wasn't the problem. &nbsp;When the truck and trailer arrived, she simply called up her babies. &nbsp;I can still hear her voice: &nbsp;"Come on, babies, let's go. &nbsp;Come on babies." &nbsp;And here they would come, crowding onto the trailer as calmly as if they were going on a field trip.<br /><br />&nbsp;No, the problem came when the trailer pulled away with a crunch of gravel and clouds of dust and rolled down the drive to begin the trip to the sale barn. &nbsp;My mother grieved. &nbsp;She grieved as deeply and as long as the cow mothers did.<br /><br />My dad passed away in 2001 and my mother held on as long as she could. &nbsp;But the time came that the herd had to go. &nbsp;Geri and I came down from Nashville that morning, to lend moral and emotional support as much as anything else. &nbsp;When the buyers arrived, the cattle were herded and loaded. It was a long, grueling process and my mother shed a tear for each animal as it was loaded on a trailer. &nbsp;Unfortunately, it wasn't a clean sweep, and there were a handful that managed to slip away into the woods, and no matter how hard anyone tried, they couldn't be coaxed to load. <br /><br />The next morning, the buyers arrived armed with more men...and horses...and ATVs. &nbsp;And for twelve hours they tried to catch a half dozen head, four cows and two calves. &nbsp;It was a loud and anguished day. &nbsp;Lots of yelling, cursing, screaming. &nbsp;ATVs tearing through the woods like giant hornets. &nbsp;Men brandishing lariats on horses attempting to corner animals half as agile but twice as determined not to be cornered. &nbsp;The whole sweaty crew left that evening with nothing but dusty clothes and sunburned necks to show for it. &nbsp;Said they'd be back the next morning with more horses and more ATVs.<br /><br />That evening, as the sun was setting behind the woods and filling the sky with a soft strawberry glow, my mother walked out to where the pasture met the woods and called. Her voice carried lightly on the breeze.<br /><br />"Come on, babies, let's go. &nbsp;Come on babies."<br /><br />And, one by one, they ambled out of the woods and into the paddock she had readied with hay and water. &nbsp;Once they were in, she closed the gate.<br /><br />My mother always said the farm was never the same without cattle. &nbsp;She said that they kept her company after Dad died. &nbsp;And that it felt good to have something out there living and breathing on all those stretched-out acres. &nbsp;She said she liked hearing them and being able to look out her windows or back door and see them. &nbsp;They were really nice company, she claimed.<br /><br />And I sometimes think maybe that was what that pretty, well-dressed young woman was seeing all those many years ago, in that rough scrabbly yard with the two pups pressed reverently against her. &nbsp;I think maybe she was seeing her future and that her future would contain lots of creatures needing her. &nbsp;Lots of innocent four-legged guys and gals needing a true and steady advocate. &nbsp;Lots of creatures in search of a soothing voice, a kind touch, and a strong and loving heart.<br /><br />If they were fortunate enough to cross paths with Margie Gray, they found all these things and more, &nbsp;I believe. &nbsp;And were happier and better for it. <br /><br />As was I.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-15877314706232374022016-05-23T15:34:00.003-07:002016-06-12T16:34:59.604-07:00Tossed in the Sixties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for photos of the sixties" class="rg_i" data-src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSFBbU9ZqQffucXHC3--stMs2PPtm0TKE_FG2BnlDgOErIvwJv" data-sz="f" height="258" jsaction="load:str.tbn" name="QAxzPdC2ycUrQM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSFBbU9ZqQffucXHC3--stMs2PPtm0TKE_FG2BnlDgOErIvwJv" style="height: 163px; margin-left: -3px; margin-right: -2px; margin-top: 0px; width: 202px;" width="320" /></div><br /><br /><br /><br />This morning, southbound on I-65, my satellite radio was tuned to "The Sixties on Six" with Phlash Phelps, the sun was a brilliant yellow against a flawless blue sky, and the interstate miles were melting away like a Dairy Dip vanilla swirl cone on a muggy July afternoon. &nbsp;And let me tell you something that I suspect you already know: &nbsp;it's doggone hard to feel down when you've got the Sixties up and blasting from eight, nicely balanced Bose speakers. &nbsp;You know what I'm talking about.<br /><br />Humanity has been obsessed with time travel since the beginning of, well, time. &nbsp; &nbsp;And who doesn't know that the best conduit for traveling through time is music, and I just happen to be irrevocably connected to the Sixties. &nbsp;Call it my hamartia. &nbsp;Call it my passion. &nbsp;Call it living in the past.<br /><br />Where else can you begin a decade with Chubby Checker's "The Twist," peaking at number one on the Billboard 100 on September 24, 1960 and listen while it fades into static with The Rolling Stones "Honky Tonk Women," Billboard's top hit on August 23, 1969? &nbsp;And, oh my goodness, think about all the chock-full-of-greatness in between.<br /><br />It was a Remember When kind of morning.<br /><br />Percy Faith's violin-y rendering of "The Theme From 'A Summer Place'" finds a skinny, freckled face kid lined up at the Lincoln Theatre waiting for a ticket to see a steamy movie, at least by 1960's standards. &nbsp;Then emerging from the cool, dark theatre a couple of hours later, a little wiser but a lot more confused. &nbsp;What did my innocence just witness? &nbsp;Adultery and teenage sex? &nbsp;Pregnancy out of wedlock? &nbsp;Whew! &nbsp;All that education and I have to return to the seventh grade at Robert E. Lee on Monday? &nbsp;Couldn't get that boathouse &nbsp;and Sandra Dee off my mind, though. &nbsp;Sandra Dee. &nbsp;Oh my. &nbsp;Blonde, beautiful, and promiscuous. &nbsp;Where do you go after Sandra Dee?<br /><br />A year later, "Runaround Sue" (I wouldn't find out about those hussies for a few years yet) and the bompa-bebomp ding a dong dang of "Blue Moon" in 1962 found my inner adolescent and my outer teenager &nbsp;duking it out for control of my mind and my body. &nbsp;I don't remember the victor but I recall the casualties. &nbsp;(And I thought my parents were the ones with a problem.)<br /><br />The summer of '63 arrived and Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs (why don't we have names like that anymore?) introduced me to a crazy little shack beyond the tracks. &nbsp;I'm not sure that I was suave and debonair enough to know about coffee houses and expresso, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't have minded meeting that barefooted gal in black leotards, given the chance. &nbsp;Yeah, whoa baby, I gotta get back to the Sugar Shack. &nbsp;And Sandra Dee? &nbsp;Sorry, sweetie, go back to Troy. You're ancient history.<br /><br />If you're still with me on this little time travel, and age appropriate, you might agree that the music of 1964 was a perfect match for the angst and uncertainty that stalks a high school freshman. &nbsp;Let's face it, we've got the Beatles coming at us across the Atlantic like a fully armed destroyer, wanting, for some strange reason, to hold our hands. &nbsp;Then you've got our homies, The Righteous Brothers, striking back with one of the world-class slow dance anthems, "You've Lost That Loving Feeling," the Animals introducing us to a New Orleans brothel in "House of the Rising Sun," while the Drifters and the Four Tops are trying their best to keep us stateside and focused on basic colonist rock and roll, with "Under the Boardwalk" and "Baby I Need Your Loving." &nbsp;Slowly losing ground to the Hermits, the Zombies, and the Kinks. &nbsp;(I'm telling you, there's something in the names!)<br /><br />That year and the following, 1965, were landmark years for a teenager battling raging pimples and rampant testosterone. &nbsp;Out with Post Office and Spin the Bottle (Google it, Millenials!) and in with heavy petting and fogging up the windows on the pep bus. &nbsp;Those were "first <u>real</u> girlfriend" years. &nbsp;Well, maybe "first <u>real</u> girlfriend<b style="font-style: italic;">s"&nbsp;</b>years. &nbsp;The invasion from England was going full force with a new mop-headed group almost every week. &nbsp;It was tough dancing to "I'm Henery the Eighth, I Am" and "Do You Believe in Magic," but we tried. &nbsp;February, '65 finds me California bound in the back of a gold Cadillac thinking "I'll Never Find Another You" and "Save Your Heart for Me" &nbsp;as my first "first <u>real</u> girlfriend" &nbsp;fades in the rearview, not realizing that my second, third, and fourth "first <u>real</u> girlfriend<b><i>s</i></b>" were waiting for me 2000 miles to the west. &nbsp;Where The Beach Boys were already extolling the virtues (or lack thereof) of "California Girls." &nbsp;Sandra who?<br /><br />My senior year in southern California hurtled by like a goofy-footed surfer on a runaway wave and suddenly it's May, 1966 and graduation night at Disneyland in Anaheim, California. &nbsp;An up and coming group calling themselves The Association (sounds like a prequel to the CIA) previewed their first hit, "Cherish." &nbsp;Then as the clock struck midnight and the dancing got slow enough &nbsp;and close enough to make the chaperones loudly clear their throats, &nbsp;Percy Sledge began to wail "When a Man Loves a Woman." &nbsp;Whew! &nbsp;Hey, is it possible to be seventeen and NOT in love? &nbsp;Or at least in lust?<br /><br />Back to Tennessee in the same gold Cadillac that spirited me away (after a surprise layover with a busted radiator hose in the Mojave Desert about sixty miles outside of Barstow), being serenaded by Neil Diamond, The Mommas and the Poppas, the Troggs, and Question Mark and the Mysterians (I ask again: why don't we have names like that anymore?) &nbsp;Older, just slightly wiser, and ready for the next adventure.<br /><br />For those of you still with me, I don't know about you, but for me, &nbsp;'67 and '68 were blurs. &nbsp;The Beatles hit their Magical Mystery Tour days. &nbsp; Jefferson Airplane freaked us out with "White Rabbit" and "Somebody to Love." &nbsp;The Doors lit our fires and Jimi Hendrix added a little purple to our already thick haze. &nbsp;I surrendered to my hormones and became a newlywed, a fact that I'm certain still causes my first wife to have rapid eye blinks and night sweats. &nbsp;Can't say I blame her. You can only get so much mileage out of "Dedicated to the One I Love."<br /><br />1969 marked the end of the decade and the end of my prolonged childhood. &nbsp;I'm pretty sure at age 20 I was past due some growing up, so Uncle Sam sent me a letter and took me to live with him a couple of years. Lots of people grew up at the end of the glorious Sixties. &nbsp;The war in Vietnam raged on even as the Fifth Dimension were clamoring for peace to rule the planets and for everyone to "Let the Sunshine In." &nbsp;The Beatles continued to hang in with "Get Back" and "Come Together" while, who would have thunk it, Elvis Presley gets up off the mat in the 15th round with "Suspicious Minds" and "In the Ghetto." &nbsp;That year managed to mesh everything that had happened during the nine before it. &nbsp;It was a hodgepodge of musical styles, a cornucopia of musical tastes: &nbsp;the sexy rasp of Bob Dylan on "Lay, Lady, Lay," the nostalgic "Hurt So Bad" by the sweater-wearing &nbsp;Lettermen, the sticky sweet bubble gummy "Sugar, Sugar" by the Archies, the hippie ballad "Hair," and the futuristic, eclectic "In the Year 2525." &nbsp;It was something for everyone, as if the decade was making a peace offering and leaving everyone a nice parting gift. Wrapped tightly and sealed by a groovy little happening on a 600 acre dairy farm in Bethel, New York. &nbsp; Goodbye Sixties. &nbsp;You did it up right.<br /><br />But back to this morning...fifty years later...on the interstate...Sixties on Six...the miles melting, the memories flashing, fingers tapping, shoulders snapping. &nbsp;Oh, did I dance in my car a little bit! &nbsp;Yeah, baby. &nbsp;I did! &nbsp;Watch this. &nbsp;A little Swim, a little Jerk, a little Boog-aloo. Dancing like nobody was watching. &nbsp;Uh-huh...until I glanced over at the fast lane and saw someone <u>was</u> watching. &nbsp;A trucker. &nbsp;Watching and laughing. &nbsp;Uncontrollably. &nbsp;But, not to worry. &nbsp;It's all good.<br /><br />Like I said, for a Boomer, the best pick-me-up is solid dose of the coolest music this side of heaven. &nbsp;You can keep your anti-depressants, postpone the therapy session, and open the flaps on the sweat lodge. &nbsp;Instead, I'll take a dozen CCR, a couple of Tommy James and the Shondells, and a six-pack of The Temptations. &nbsp;Then you can throw in a little Strawberry Alarm Clock and Vanilla Fudge for dessert, and I'm there, baby. <br /><br />Yeah, baby... Strawberry Alarm Clock and Vanilla Fudge! &nbsp;Now those were the days!<br /><br />By the way, have I asked why we don't have names like that anymore?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-50980775629115184142016-04-29T15:42:00.000-07:002016-04-30T13:44:56.422-07:00Thorn bird&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ANmAFwxSvgY/VyT58QDJNMI/AAAAAAAAAaw/y7Vr0TrtAmUwOpnUmW55Spd0f3BjpYEZwCK4B/s1600/IMG_5257.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ANmAFwxSvgY/VyT58QDJNMI/AAAAAAAAAaw/y7Vr0TrtAmUwOpnUmW55Spd0f3BjpYEZwCK4B/s320/IMG_5257.JPG" width="240" /></a>&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br /><br />It was one of those textbook spring mornings. &nbsp;Your winter-weary flesh initiates a love affair with the near-perfect temperature, the sun softly butters everything around you, and a southerly breeze licks your face and massages your feet. &nbsp;I suppose it was a perfect morning for sitting on the back porch of the farmhouse, listening to the cardinals' chirps and a weaning, homesick calf crying for its momma; but it was also a perfect morning to get a little work done.<br /><br />Armed with a sling blade (Karl would call it a Kaiser Blade), a weedeater, and some pruning shears, I headed off for a spot that was absolutely crawling with thorn trees. &nbsp;All sizes - from infant to young adult. &nbsp;All worthy opponents, even with my high tech gear. &nbsp;You see, a thorn tree has a mind of its own, even as you are working to snip it or chop it, it's thinking of ways to get even. &nbsp;Ways to hurt you. &nbsp;Ways to maneuver its hateful spikes into your skin. &nbsp;Gloves? &nbsp;Forget about it. &nbsp;Any thorn tree worth its salt will make short work of even the thickest gloves and sink a thorn into the most vulnerable fleshy part of your hand.<br /><br />What, I wondered, was God thinking when he created this weird tree, this plant of absolutely no redeemable value? &nbsp;Surely it was a busy day for Him and somehow this anomaly slipped by his otherwise impeccable creativity. &nbsp;Because I figured that I could spend a day or two just simply trying to find some modicum of worth for this wretched excuse for vegetation, and I wouldn't be able to come up with a single thing.<br /><br />Regardless, &nbsp;I was winning the battle and had the field cleared with the exception of two plants. &nbsp;One a bruising six or seven footer and the other about hip high, qualifying more as a bush than a tree. &nbsp;I decided to make quick work of Shorty and then move on to Wilt. &nbsp;As I bent over the small thorn tree with pruner open, &nbsp;ready to snip it at its roots, I noticed something sitting near the top of the little tree, almost dead center. &nbsp;I looked closely and saw that it was a bird's nest, perfect in shape and placement. &nbsp; Meticulously woven shreds of grass had created a nicely rounded chamber for the future deposit of eggs. &nbsp;I heard a flutter to the side and turned and saw the momma bird sitting along the fence, her beak loaded with a fresh batch of building materials. &nbsp;She was a tiny sparrow, perfect in her own way, tail flitting back and forth and tiny, black, marble eyes peering at a gawky human hovering about her nearly finished home.<br /><br />My initial thought was of our farm cats and how they would make short work of a nest full of naked baby birds and that maybe the best thing I could do for Momma Bird would be to destroy the thorn tree and the nest so she could start over in a safer place. &nbsp;Wait a minute. &nbsp;Thorn tree. &nbsp;That's the ticket! &nbsp;What could be a more perfect place for a low lying nest than dead center of a thorn tree. &nbsp;I figured there wasn't a domestic cat born capable of &nbsp;penetrating a thorn tree, regardless of the hapless havoc they could create with a nest of baby birds.<br /><br />She was one sharp momma, that little sparrow. &nbsp;Yessiree. &nbsp;And God? &nbsp;Well, I reckon His eye <i>is</i> on the sparrow. &nbsp;As well as the thorn tree. &nbsp;And I knew what I had always known, but, in a very human way, tended to forget. &nbsp;God makes no junk. &nbsp;And He certainly doesn't waste creativity. &nbsp;Not a drop.<br /><br />When I slipped away from her tree, Momma Sparrow flew over with her beakful of grass and starting weaving away. &nbsp;Me? &nbsp;I shouldered my shears and eased on over to Wilt. &nbsp;Wasn't any nest in that big boy, and I had a job to finish.<br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-74943342216125177922016-01-07T11:57:00.002-08:002016-06-18T09:13:44.003-07:00Sunny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5JfAQUdQOZs/V2VzHofZnXI/AAAAAAAAAbk/Y8XMa5lSCeQFpMEnGciWDW0xiTQ8oVoGgCK4B/s1600/33bd49e6a3c3f2045d4fe94a57a96ae5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5JfAQUdQOZs/V2VzHofZnXI/AAAAAAAAAbk/Y8XMa5lSCeQFpMEnGciWDW0xiTQ8oVoGgCK4B/s320/33bd49e6a3c3f2045d4fe94a57a96ae5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />&nbsp;God moves in mysterious ways, it is said. &nbsp;And God knows that I'm not a big fan of surprises, but that doesn't stop Him from messing with me from time to time. &nbsp;God knows when I need a messing with. &nbsp;A sharp elbow in the side.<br /><br />Like today...<br /><br />I was doing some cleaning up and cleaning out, and, believe me, that's a rare thing for me, when I ran across something that I wrote on August 3, 2010. &nbsp;I know the date from the content, just as I know I was in Fayetteville, Arkansas when I wrote it because it was scribbled on stationery from the Inn at Carnall Hall, the hotel that sits at the University of Arkansas. &nbsp;(Pig, Sooie, y'all.)<br /><br />Here's what it said:<br /><br /><i>The text message read: &nbsp;"Bobby Hebb died today in Nashville." &nbsp;It was from my wife and it took me a minute to recall who Bobby Hebb was. &nbsp;Then I remembered. &nbsp;He was the "Sunny" writer and singer, the son of blind musicians and from my home state of Tennessee. What a song! &nbsp;And I was instantly transported back to 1966, a 17 year old in the passenger seat of a 1959 gold Cadillac, squinting into the early morning southern California sun assaulting the windshield. &nbsp;I know the skies are a blue that is ubiquitous to that part of the country just as the Pall Mall being balanced between an index finger and middle finger is ubiquitous to my dad's hand. &nbsp;The right hand that&nbsp;sits atop the steering wheel, guiding us to Norton Air Force Base in San&nbsp;Bernardino. &nbsp; Our jobs await, my dad's permanent and my temporary, filling the gap between high school and my first year of college. &nbsp;KHJ out of Los Angeles was tuned on the radio. &nbsp;Probably the Real Don Steele spinning the wax.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>"Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain.</i><br /><i>Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain."</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>I spent three months that summer of '66 copying, over and over, a blueprint of something. &nbsp;I&nbsp;don't&nbsp;remember what design I labored over, the job being less important&nbsp;than was having a purpose in one of the most difficult transitions of life. &nbsp;That shaky suspension bridge between high school and real school. &nbsp;My employers thought they were prepping a future engineer while in reality they were boring a future English Lit major.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>But, in those uncertain, awkward times, Mr. Bobby Hebb made things a little easier, a little less&nbsp;trepidatious. &nbsp;A little more&nbsp;copacetic.&nbsp;</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>"The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here,</i><br /><i>My Sunny one shines so sincere,</i><br /><i>Sunny one so&nbsp;true, I love you."</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>There was war and&nbsp;rumors of war in Southeast Asia, and&nbsp;the British rock community had slipped in while Paul Revere slept. &nbsp;It wasn't by land or by sea, actually. &nbsp;They arrived by jetliner. &nbsp;In droves. &nbsp;In fact, old Paul gathered up a bunch of chaps and called them the Raiders and bolstered the invasion by one more Beatle wannabe band.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Maybe every 17 year old &nbsp;boy believed in those days that everything was on the brink, but I was pretty certain we had reached what we would one day call the tipping point.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>"Sunny, thank you for the truth you let me see,</i><br /><i>Sunny, thank you for the facts from A to Z."</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>But, singlehandedly, Bobby Hebb wrote a prescription to treat the&nbsp;angst of hormonal&nbsp;disharmony, long&nbsp;before the pharmaceutical companies manufactured dozens of smart pills to combat stress and anxiety. &nbsp;Because in "Sunny," we&nbsp;found the perfect woman, a combination of mother, lover, and friend. &nbsp;In "Sunny," we&nbsp;found optimism of a color that blended perfectly with the yellow southern California sun, the icy blue of the southern California sky, and the&nbsp;kaleidoscope of teenage existence.&nbsp;</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>We found hope.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>"You're the spark of nature's fire, you're my sweet complete desire,</i><br /><i>Sunny one so true, I love you."</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Little did I know at the time that Sunny was written just hours following a surreal time for this nation as well as a double whammy of heartbreak for Bobby Hebb. &nbsp;It was November 22, 1963. &nbsp;A few hours after Lee Harvey Oswald snuffed the light of John F. Kennedy, someone stabbed Bobby Hebb's brother to death outside a nightclub in Nashville, Tennessee. &nbsp;It was from the deepest of darkness that "Sunny" was born.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>So thank you, Bobby Hebb. &nbsp;Your desire to see a silver lining in your darkest days brought light hearts and smiles to a generation of young people preparing to enter the fray of adulthood. &nbsp;Thank you for an anthem accompanying a generation marching into a&nbsp;different kind of war, a war euphemized to a conflict. &nbsp;Thank you for a feel-good song in an act-bad world.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>And most of all, thank you for the lesson that rain soaks us only as long as we are dumb enough to stand in it. &nbsp;You truly did, Mr. Hebb, "ease the pain." &nbsp;I hope and pray yours was eased as well. &nbsp;Rest in peace, Bobby.</i><br /><i><br /></i>I needed to find that little scrap of writing today. &nbsp;I was glad that I misplaced it over five years ago. &nbsp;There have been many changes in my life during those five years, including another shaky suspension bridge, this one between professional life and retirement. &nbsp;I also lost my mother and my brother. &nbsp;And my wife and I are facing the dilemma of aging, ailing pets, all of them hitting the ten and twelve year mark at the same time. &nbsp;It's overcast today with a still, cold pallor over everything. &nbsp;Winter glowers with leafless trees, brown grass, and a chill in the air.<br /><br />But guess what? &nbsp;Twenty seconds to download "Sunny" and for three and a half minutes I'm back in the passenger seat of that gold Cadillac, the smoke from Dad's Pall Mall getting sucked out of his open window, to disappear like the ghost of troubles past in the rearview mirror. &nbsp;His Old Spice tickles my nose as my sunburned hand reaches over to turn the radio up just a little more. &nbsp;Bobby is thanking Sunny for "the gleam that shows its grace."<br /><br />Dad smiles, and, when I lean back, &nbsp;through the spotless windshield there's nothing but excitement and hope. &nbsp;Blue skies diffused by bright yellow rays. &nbsp;Check that out, young man, that's the future that sits down the road, just over that hill and around that curve. &nbsp;That's your future. &nbsp;And a future, then as now, that is best left to God. <br /><br />My gleaming, gracious God of surprises. My God with the sharp elbows.<br /><br /><br /><br /><i><br /></i><i><br /></i>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-82274949094970657952015-07-18T15:35:00.000-07:002015-07-18T15:35:34.456-07:00To those who fell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W0le1lvpGy0/VarTVM0aR5I/AAAAAAAAAZ4/M_MSCl2ci78/s1600/5crosses.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W0le1lvpGy0/VarTVM0aR5I/AAAAAAAAAZ4/M_MSCl2ci78/s320/5crosses.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />&nbsp;As my wife and I drove though Chattanooga this past Thursday, just after 11:00 o'clock on a muggy July morning, I was completely unaware of the level of terror and mayhem being dispensed with fury that very moment. &nbsp;While we skirted the east side of town, on our way to Roanoke, bedlam erupted some ten miles away, &nbsp;as four unarmed marines were being murdered while three other men sustained wounds. &nbsp;One of the three wounded, Petty Officer Randall Smith, died this morning. &nbsp;A police officer and a marine recruiter are expected to recover. &nbsp;So, in addition to the twenty-three year old father of three, Petty Officer Smith, &nbsp;the following men are no longer with us on this earthly plane: &nbsp;Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Sullivan, Lance Corporal Skip Wells, Staff Sergeant David Wyatt, and Sergeant Carson Holmquist.<br /><br />I didn't know them but my heart aches. &nbsp;Like the nine innocent beings who were shot to death in Charleston, South Carolina just a month before, these young men got up on the morning of the last day of their lives with death not even a thought. <br /><br />Kids, jobs, grocery lists, birthdays, lunch destinations, weekend plans, God, friends - yes. <br /><br />Death at the hands of consummate evil in the flesh - no.<br /><br />But don't let me digress into that soul-less, pit-bound, grisly, rotten evil and the so-called human being who breathed and bled that evil. &nbsp;The so-called human being whose name I refuse to type in the same space as five American heroes. &nbsp;There's another time and place for that. &nbsp;And a wise and loving Power beyond my comprehension will handle that issue in good time.<br /><br />I also don't want to allow my mind to wander to how horrific it must have been for those tried and trained soldiers, including a two-time purple heart recipient, to be in the position of facing an armed enemy with no weapons with which to protect themselves. &nbsp;How absolutely mind-blowing to try to comprehend that after tours in battle zones, after learning how to counter-attack, how to fight fire with fire - in their last battle on this earth, they were left to face death without a fighting chance. &nbsp;To slap at their sides and find nothing there. &nbsp;To be empty handed in the face of mortal conflict.<br /><br />No I don't want to do that.<br /><br />What I really want to do here is something personal and self-serving. &nbsp;I want to acknowledge the five men by name, thank God for their lives and service to this country, and rejoice in the knowledge that they have been welcomed with &nbsp;great joy and celebration into the heavenly realm. &nbsp;I want to send bear hugs and love to their families and loved ones. &nbsp;I want to wish them comfort and healing.<br /><br />I want to pray for the wounded to recover.<br /><br />And, if I could, one more thing, please.<br /><br />&nbsp;I want to ask God to instill fresh courage, insight, and wisdom into the elected leadership of this great country, even as it staggers and reels from cancerous divisiveness. &nbsp;Even as it shows the weakening of spirit brought about by too many years of real and hypothetical enemy fire and friendly fire. &nbsp;Even as the cracks widen and deepen in its aging foundation for our lack of strong craftsmen to render repairs. &nbsp;Even as the absolute fiber of this nation unravels because we don't have leadership in place at any level capable of stemming the unraveling and managing the repair.<br /><br />Some twenty-four hours after the first four young men lost their lives, four sleek black hearses led by state troopers, winded their way north in the inside lane of I-81, &nbsp;along the exact path my wife and I traveled the day before. &nbsp;Just as I had no idea of what was unfolding in Chattanooga as we passed through Thursday morning, I had no idea that we were traveling what would become, at least for some time, hallowed ground. &nbsp;If I had known, I might have found even greater glory in the Blue Ridge mountains ahead of us as they pushed their way through the clouds toward heaven. &nbsp;I might have perceived the green of the endless forests to be a little greener and the blue of the sharp Virginia sky to be a little bluer. &nbsp;For there were, after all, heroes on the way.<br /><br />So when I pray to God for divine guidance out of this sinkhole we seem to be trapped in, I'm not just doing it for me - or for you. &nbsp; And I'm not just doing for the five most recent casualties of our national illness. &nbsp;I'm praying for our children and their children. &nbsp;And for the children beyond that. &nbsp;I'm praying for our future. &nbsp; I want them to have a better and braver nation than we have. &nbsp; Because, let's face it, we need a better an braver nation. &nbsp;A good deal better and braver.<br /><br />And, dear God, we need it fast.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-35110471907581825512015-07-15T08:21:00.001-07:002015-07-15T08:21:25.391-07:00You go, Pluto!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KNAW0oKtWms/VaZ58PM5c5I/AAAAAAAAAZc/2eiPdP02ESE/s1600/_84270464_p_lorri_fullframe_color.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KNAW0oKtWms/VaZ58PM5c5I/AAAAAAAAAZc/2eiPdP02ESE/s320/_84270464_p_lorri_fullframe_color.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />I wanted to re-share this post I did in March of 2014. &nbsp;Looking at it now, in concert with all the hype that Pluto has gotten over the past couple of days, I think I may have taken a pretty good swing at the head of the nail. &nbsp;If you google Pluto, you get over 56 million results. &nbsp;Not bad for a planet delegated to dwarf status. &nbsp;John Grunsfeld, NASA's science chief, has been quoted: &nbsp;"Pluto is an extraordinarily complex and interesting world." <br /><br />Take that, you eight full-sized planets! <br /><br />Stand by. &nbsp;I think the accolades have just begun.<br /><br />************************************************************************<br />From March 13, 2014<br /><br />Shakespeare might have written:<br /><br /><i>Alas, poor Pluto, we knew him Horatio; when he was a planet full; though tiny icy sphere he had pedigree in the Heavens. &nbsp;Though flung furtherest afar, a simple dot, a flea on Neptune's knee, nonetheless we paid homage to him and his five moons. &nbsp;Now, Horatio, he dons the dress of the dwarf, a cuckolded planet, a plutoid if you dare, while us poor mortals who once claimed nine, must now make do with eight.</i><br /><br />Sorry, Will. &nbsp;I know you could have done a much better job giving notice of Pluto's ignominious delegation to a dwarf planet. &nbsp;I'm not certain why we felt it necessary to strip Pluto of planet status. &nbsp;You'd think the guy would have been grandfathered in after all these years. &nbsp;Let's face it, he'd been around since 1930 and we were all quite content as fifth graders to triumphantly name him last as we recited the nine planets in our solar system. &nbsp;Maybe it's just me, but there was something magic about nine. &nbsp;(I've always been partial to anything divisible by three.) &nbsp;Eight planets and the sun just doesn't do it for me. &nbsp;And honestly, he was one of the easiest to remember in order of distance from the sun. &nbsp;I always got hung up around Neptune and Saturn.<br /><br />But I digress.<br /><br />What we did to Pluto would be akin to removing Doc from Dwarf status just because he was the only dwarf who had a name that didn't describe a disposition or mood. &nbsp;The original Snow White movie was released in 1938, so Pluto had seniority on Doc. &nbsp;I happen to think that Walt Disney had better judgement and a much higher degree of emotional intelligence than the International Astronomical Union. &nbsp;He knew that "Snow White and the Six Dwarfs" would be a day late and a dwarf short. &nbsp;(Oooooh...that was bad...real bad.)<br /><br />That said, Pluto will soon have a visitor. &nbsp;The space probe New Horizons will reach Pluto in 2015. &nbsp;July 14, 2015 if all goes as planned. &nbsp;Interestingly, New Horizons was launched in 2006, just before the IAU decided to embarrass Pluto, and has zipped along at the pace of just over 36,000 miles per hour since launch. &nbsp;Sort of a long way and a short time to get there, at least from the perspective of our 13.2 billion year old galaxy. I wonder if NASA had waited a few months to when Pluto was canned as a planet if they would have spent those billions of dollars to visit a plutoid. &nbsp;I wonder if maybe they might have had New Horizons dip and weave through the belt of Saturn, do a quick flyover of Neptune, and then pull a u-ey and head back home?<br /><br />We will never know. &nbsp;I think it would be great if the probe got to Pluto and discovered that though it was small, the dwarf formally known as a planet had more character than Venus and more spunk than Mercury, hidden attributes to the point that it deserved to be reinstated to full planet status. &nbsp;A formal apology would be issued by the IAU guys and NASA would be exonerated in its decision to send a probe about three billion miles to inspect a chunk of dirty ice.<br /><br />I think that would be neat, don't you? &nbsp;Exactly what the Doc ordered.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-36070054355126249872015-07-13T09:55:00.001-07:002015-07-13T09:55:33.445-07:00This morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hTjtS1oaWEo/VaPtZUBHkZI/AAAAAAAAAZA/GiaRdMgCYZs/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hTjtS1oaWEo/VaPtZUBHkZI/AAAAAAAAAZA/GiaRdMgCYZs/s320/FullSizeRender%2B6.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />This morning, I don't care about the Confederate flag. &nbsp;Or that the fleur-di-lis is now being investigated as a potential symbol of racism. &nbsp;I don't care that the umpteenth Republican has thrown his hat or her scarf into the ring. &nbsp;I'm not concerned about Greece's debt or &nbsp;which food group Ariana Grande is going to lick with her careless tongue.<br /><br />I do care about the little four-year-old from down the road who got tangled up with a bulldozer this past weekend and is now hospitalized and struggling through the pain of recovery. &nbsp;My thoughts have traveled this July morning to many people I know who are personally waging battles against injury, disease, or grief or those who are hunkered down in the bunkers on behalf of those in the thick of the battle. &nbsp;This morning, those who I am close to on a daily basis or those who I tend at a distance, or even through social media, are on my mind. &nbsp;They are in my heart as I ponder my own way through life's journey on the roadbed of God's plan. <br /><br />I covet, on their behalf, the blessings that await them just around the next sharp corner.<br /><br />At the same time, I always try to remain mindful of the simple pleasures of life that surround and envelop me: &nbsp;the amazing greens of this summer landscape; the piercing blue sky, finger-smudged by clouds; the insistent and incessant buzz and rattle of July flies. &nbsp;Even the dream-induced whimpers of two, lazy black cats, stretched out on the shady floor of the screened-in porch. &nbsp;I even try to find pleasure in heat so humid and thick it permeates the rich bottom soil of the old homeplace, then arises to be stirred and lifted by the occasional breeze, prompting that full, fertile smell to wing its way into my senses.<br /><br />And I see that life is good.<br /><br />Life is good because it is life. &nbsp;I think the parents of that little cast-imprisoned four-year-old would tell us, as bad as it is today and with a long road ahead, life is good because their son lives. <br /><br />In all the current divisiveness that infects us like a mental and emotional plague - like a germ for which there is no antibiotic - &nbsp;we must step away for just a minute and be thankful for a heart that beats strongly every second or so, for the ability to breathe the next &nbsp;breath, for eyes that can choose to see the beauty, ears that can choose to hear the blessings, and mouths that can choose to sing the glory and speak the good news.<br /><br />This morning, I choose no flag, I claim no politics, I have no soapbox, and &nbsp;commit to nothing more than the commandment to love my neighbor as myself. &nbsp;This morning, I give my heart to all who need it in a way that is good and kind. &nbsp;This morning, I share a smile.<br /><br />If anyone needs anything else...check with me tomorrow.<br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-59496741523080401432015-06-22T10:54:00.002-07:002015-06-22T18:29:31.622-07:00Steve and Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w84Txj4l0jk/VYhF0el7gyI/AAAAAAAAAYc/D_yxiCh8sEo/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w84Txj4l0jk/VYhF0el7gyI/AAAAAAAAAYc/D_yxiCh8sEo/s320/FullSizeRender%2B2.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aQAGvNrYduw/VYhF66T2lNI/AAAAAAAAAYk/FtbzvdTBiOc/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aQAGvNrYduw/VYhF66T2lNI/AAAAAAAAAYk/FtbzvdTBiOc/s320/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />My wife is growing a tad concerned toward my relationship with our two pool swans. &nbsp;She uses words like "obsession" and "creepy." &nbsp;But, hey, sticks and stones...right? Though I have quietly observed her journey around my so-called creepy obsession going from "playing along," to complete disinterest (poorly feigned, I must say), to me discovering a Google search history on "mental health facilities in central Tennessee."<br /><br />Frankly, I don't know what the problem is.<br /><br />I purchased, inflated, and installed Steve a couple of years ago. &nbsp;I found him on Amazon and thought that his stately presence would be a nice addition to our pool. &nbsp;I was quite proud of him and he became, for lack of a better phrase, something of a son to me. &nbsp;For that year, and last year, he seemed satisfied to be the lone occupant of the pool, except for an occasional spider, frog, and, in one instance, a very confused and frightened baby rabbit. &nbsp;I have to credit Steve with taking on the suave demeanor of the consummate confirmed bachelor. &nbsp;He was truly an exceptional son. &nbsp;I mean, swan.<br /><br />This spring, I noticed that Steve looked a bit, should I say, downtrodden. &nbsp;He'd let his appearance go over the winter. &nbsp;Unbeknownst to me, a hard southern wind had buffeted him from the pool, into the surrounding foliage, &nbsp;and he had endured February and March trapped up against the corner of the fence that surrounds the pool. &nbsp;Out of sight. &nbsp;Out of mind. &nbsp;Anyway, when I finally noticed him missing and searched him out, he had quite a bit of mildew buildup and was remarkably deflated. &nbsp;Not to mention a good dose of goosey attitude.<br /><br />After a bleach bath and a few puffs of air, accompanied by my contrite explanation as to why it took me so long to notice him missing, &nbsp;he was as good as new. &nbsp;Almost. &nbsp;Some of the mildew had been impossible to remove, giving him the appearance of a 5 o'clock shadow. &nbsp;There were a few scratches and scrapes on his body, and his eyes and beak line had faded slightly. &nbsp;But that wasn't the real problem. &nbsp;Nope. &nbsp;The real problem was latex deep. &nbsp;Somewhere in his great, airy void. &nbsp;Steve was lonely. &nbsp;I knew it. &nbsp;He knew it. <br /><br />My wife didn't know it, and according to her, she frankly didn't care. <br /><br />So back to Amazon, and, thanks to Prime membership, two days later, Lady arrived.<br /><br />And was she a looker! &nbsp;The beak on that gal!<br /><br />I couldn't wait to remove the packaging, resuscitate her, and set her afloat.<br /><br />I did and the results were instantaneous. &nbsp;As soon as Lady's cute little swan butt hit the water, Steve made a beeline toward her. &nbsp; A stiff breeze from the north didn't hurt.<br /><br />And since then? &nbsp;Inseparable. <br /><br />Swans mate for life, you know. &nbsp;Yep. &nbsp;Other than the occasional nesting failure (hey, it happens to the best of us) or the untimely death of one of the pair, swans are in it for the long haul. &nbsp;It's obvious when you observe Steve and Lady. &nbsp;Where one goes, the other goes. It's like they're connected at the wing. &nbsp;Sometimes, especially on hot, calm days, they will hook necks and just bob around and around in the same spot.<br /><br />The pool is their universe and love is their language.<br /><br />I'm not saying that they don't have a spat now and again. &nbsp;It happens. &nbsp;How does a swan know what perfection feels like unless there's a little imperfection stirred in every so often? &nbsp;And when that rare tiff erupts, Lady will scoot to the other end of the pool and sulk, bouncing and bobbing against the pool liner like she's going to leave and never come back. &nbsp; Then it's just a matter of time before ole Steve slinks over and apologizes. &nbsp;He's such a sucker for her feminine wiles.<br /><br />I'm sure that there's more than one of you out there who shares my wife's skepticism around the Steve and Lady love affair. &nbsp;That's okay. &nbsp;I don't expect everyone to get it. &nbsp;I've seen it with my own eyes. &nbsp;Plus, you can't be around pool swans for long without picking up on their vibes. &nbsp;And, you know, at the end of the day, the important thing is that they have each other and what people think doesn't really matter. &nbsp;Does it?<br /><br />In fact, they would like nothing better than to be able to declare their undying love for each other in voices so loud the entire world could hear. &nbsp;They would like to proclaim their monogamy from the rooftops. &nbsp;Or at least from the deep end to the shallow end. &nbsp;If it were even remotely possible, they wouldn't hesitate to snort it across the the mountains, hiss it upon the four winds, and wou wou their whoopee to the masses.<br /><br />Nope. &nbsp;That would suit them just fine.<br /><br />You know, it's too bad they're mute swans.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-37494299885799041502015-05-29T08:50:00.001-07:002015-05-29T08:55:48.909-07:00Almost a cardinal sin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XMyi7FYWubc/VWiKqL39-bI/AAAAAAAAAXs/0CNNdX0uRu4/s1600/126617701.V0RDTVJa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XMyi7FYWubc/VWiKqL39-bI/AAAAAAAAAXs/0CNNdX0uRu4/s1600/126617701.V0RDTVJa.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br />I was trimming a bush today - you know, those evergreen ones with the hard little leaves with a half dozen needle sharp points to do you in - and taking great care because I knew there was a cardinals' nest in the center of the bush. &nbsp;For years now, smart birds, usually mockingbirds, have been building there, realizing that even my ornery cats aren't going to expose themselves to lots of excruciating pain trying to maneuver through the bush to destroy the eggs or the baby birds. <br /><br />Unfortunately, upon the first or second snap of my clippers, two startled baby cardinals plummeted out of their nest and through the bottom of the bush, hopped a half dozen hops, and then made what I believe was the first flight of their life. &nbsp;Mamma and Poppa bird materialized out of nowhere and started making warning chirps and circling the cardinal Wright brothers. &nbsp;(Or sisters.)<br /><br />I observed the commotion for a time, and when it appeared that the little fellows had the ability to fly short distances and attain sufficient height, I assumed all would be well, even though I'm certain flying lessons weren't scheduled that day.<br /><br />Continuing to trim, I glanced over my shoulder at some point and saw Tiger, one of our three city cats, stretched against the chainlink fence, paws above her head, like she was going to leap or climb up the fence - something she just might be able to do but something she wouldn't do. &nbsp;Would she? &nbsp;Raising my gaze a few feet, I spotted one of the baby cardinals sitting on the top rail of the fence, three feet from my cat's paws. &nbsp;Tiger was poised to pounce and all of a sudden I saw me spending weeks agonizing over the fact that it was my fault that the baby birds had exited their nest prematurely and one of them ended up as Tiger's brunch. <br /><br />Momma and Poppa Cardinal were swooping like the Red Baron, screaming out warnings to the clueless chick. I dropped the clippers and grabbed Tiger by the scruff of her neck and carried her to the patio. &nbsp;Simultaneously, the baby Cardinal, already sporting a little mohawk-looking cardinal peak, took the longest flight of his (or her) life, managing to wing his (or her) way across the back yard to the top of the fence on the other side.<br /><br />Catastrophe avoided. &nbsp;As long as both birds kept moving and I kept an eye on my cats. &nbsp;Which I did and was able to feel completely at ease when, after a few minutes, &nbsp;I noticed that both babies and both parents had made it to the stand of trees at the edge of my back pasture.<br /><br />Later, I encountered a pouting Tiger in the basement. &nbsp;Already the most standoffish of the three, she was, at this moment, &nbsp;particularly perturbed by me. &nbsp;And I knew it was because I had intervened on behalf of the baby bird. &nbsp;And I'm sure Tiger couldn't understand why I had chosen to preserve the bird as opposed to allowing nature, and her cat instincts, to take their course.<br /><br />So, I chose to tell Tiger the story of how she and her sister Gracie and brother Rocky came to have the life they've had for the last eight years. &nbsp;How one late afternoon in July, we had discovered some evil people in a Toyota parked on a country road and reaching into their trunk and throwing things out. &nbsp;And those "things" were Momma Kitty and her three kittens. &nbsp;And how they had hit the ground running and disappeared into the woods. &nbsp;And I told Tiger, pulling her toward me and scratching her behind her ears in an attempt to smooth things over, how the four of them were on the side of that dirt and gravel road the next morning. &nbsp;Looking like forlorn little hitchhikers, flea-bitten bags of bones, hungry, thirsty, and near death. &nbsp;And I told Tiger how we had rescued them and slowly nursed them back to health, and, except for maybe stepping on the toes of their cat nature a few times over the years, how we had given them a chance for a pretty doggone good life.<br /><br />And, Tiger, I said, that's why I saved that baby bird from you. &nbsp;The same reason I saved you. &nbsp;To give it a chance for a good life.<br /><br />Of course, Tiger didn't really care. &nbsp;She pulled away from me, walked over to her water bowl, got a drink, and then disappeared through her cat door, tail high in the air and twitching with agitation. &nbsp;Leaving me sitting there without even a glance over her shoulder. &nbsp;Not even a bored yawn or dismissive gaze. &nbsp;Out the door and into the yard. &nbsp;Gone.<br /><br />Probably to try to hunt down that very lucky little bird.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-26041240677698585552015-05-20T12:20:00.001-07:002015-05-20T12:20:21.770-07:00Brothers on the beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SOjd6ggoxf4/VVzS5c70vOI/AAAAAAAAAXM/woVP4Cza9Xk/s1600/IMG_3370.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SOjd6ggoxf4/VVzS5c70vOI/AAAAAAAAAXM/woVP4Cza9Xk/s320/IMG_3370.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Soon, four months will have passed since the day I lost my brother. &nbsp;He was granted 727 months on this planet. &nbsp;Right now, the four months without him seem more of a lifetime than the 727 months with him. &nbsp;I can't explain that. &nbsp;Let me just say that missing someone appears to be more time consuming than not missing them.</div><br />I suppose if I were to scrutinize my writing, and apply labels that I so often see applied to other people's writing, I would probably fall into the scurrilous category of sentimental writing. &nbsp;I don't think that I ever understood what a critic was trying to project when he or she labeled someone's book or poetry or newspaper article "sentimental." &nbsp;What I do know is that it isn't intended to be a compliment. &nbsp;I've heard the use of sentiment described anywhere between a pejorative and a cardinal sin. &nbsp;So maybe that's not really a good thing for me, if you subscribe to the indecency of sentiment, especially when the next most used tool in my writing belt is sarcasm. &nbsp; If sentiment is my hammer, sarcasm is my saw.<br /><br />Regardless, here goes.<br /><br />Early morning on the beach is my favorite time. &nbsp;It's a great time to walk: &nbsp;the waves break more gently; the gulls and waders and shore birds scurry and swarm in anticipation of breakfast. &nbsp;Squadrons of pelicans soar overhead to their daily destination somewhere westward. &nbsp; People are more scarce but more alive. &nbsp;So I followed the pelicans and headed west where Destin rose like a mirage in the middle distance.<br /><br />A lady popped out of her condo with a dog on a leash. &nbsp;As she neared, I could see the wizened muzzle of the old pooch and I thought how the older a dog gets the more special he becomes. &nbsp;The old fellow may have looked at my wizened muzzle and thought the same thing. &nbsp;Like myself, he was still game for early morning beach exercise, even if it made both of us pant a little.<br /><br />A couple strolled leisurely just at the edge of the water, perusing more than walking. &nbsp;Speaking softly in the way that only people who have earned the gold standard of comfort with one another can speak. &nbsp;Even in silence, they communicated.<br /><br />A gentleman sat in a sling-type beach chair, puffing hard on the last couple of inches of a fat, aromatic cigar and laser focused on something intriguing in the vast emerald waters before him.<br /><br />But what caught my full attention was the sight of two brothers walking toward me. &nbsp;I guessed them to be five or six years apart. &nbsp;The older one was probably 13 or 14...the younger, maybe 8 or 9. &nbsp;Definitely brothers...similar facial features, same hair color. &nbsp;But those details were dwarfed by their brotherhood. &nbsp;Their closeness. &nbsp;An obvious emotional bond, supported by genes and blood but fused by love. &nbsp;No way, &nbsp;you say. &nbsp;No way could you see all of that in the ten or fifteen seconds you had to observe them. &nbsp;No. &nbsp;Way.<br /><br />Way.<br /><br />The older brother had his arm around the shoulders of the younger boy who sported a set of earbuds &nbsp;but was still dialed into his older brother's excited stream of chit-chat. &nbsp;Theirs was a comfortable embrace: &nbsp;simultaneously protective, comforting, loving, and, for lack of a better term: &nbsp;natural. &nbsp;They marched along in quick time, the older boy subconsciously shortening his steps to compensate for the younger one's shorter legs. &nbsp;Their eyes virtually shone with contentment. &nbsp;Whatever they shared was good and fun and full.<br /><br />Needless to say I pushed fifty years aside and imagined myself in the role of the older brother and my recently lost sibling in the role of the younger one. &nbsp;For just a few moments, it was 1960, and me and Buddy were on Daytona Beach under blue skies and a much younger sun, and we were walking together connected at the hip planning our day of battling the waves, building sand castles, and looking for shells. &nbsp;We were talking about things that made sense to only us. &nbsp;Things that were uniquely sibling proprietary. &nbsp;I had my arm around his shoulders and we were close. &nbsp;And, for those few moments, I had a brother again and I felt his sunburned skin and I saw his tousled blonde hair and I heard his excited jabbering. &nbsp; I shortened my steps so that we could travel down that beach in brotherly synchronization. &nbsp;I didn't want to lose the rhythm, the sweet cohesion. &nbsp;In 1960, life had no limits and time had no boundaries. &nbsp;And brothers were forever.<br /><br />But back to this morning....<br /><br />I turned when I knew the two compadres were well past me and took a quick snapshot. &nbsp;I wanted to remember this morning. &nbsp;And the moment. &nbsp;As they faded into the distance I had some hopes and prayers for them. &nbsp;I hoped the older brother never got tired of putting his arm around the shoulders of his younger brother. &nbsp;I hoped &nbsp;the younger brother always felt good and safe and uplifted in his older brother's presence. &nbsp;I hoped &nbsp;the connection they had on this beautiful, sun-filled morning on this wind-swept beach would be carried away with them wherever they went and whenever they needed a memory. &nbsp;I hoped that nothing would ever come between them, that they would never feel self-conscious in displaying love and affection, that they would always be best friends, that they would always put all pettiness aside. &nbsp;I prayed that they would remember this day forever and that God would give them at least another &nbsp;727 months together. &nbsp;At least.<br /><br />It was a good walk with an unexpected but well appreciated God gift.<br /><br />&nbsp;Call it sentimental if you like. &nbsp;But you know what? &nbsp;Sometimes, doggone it, just sometimes, &nbsp;you just flat out miss yesterday. &nbsp;And the ones you love. &nbsp;Especially those you loved and lost. &nbsp;Sometimes sentiment is the best tool in your writing belt because it lets you build the memory to your specifications.<br /><br />But sometimes you just miss your brother.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-1444516352812278792015-05-17T08:36:00.000-07:002015-05-17T08:36:23.022-07:00Return<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0unZeVV09Vo/VViuyvzf3aI/AAAAAAAAAW0/AGzEM9-xEbw/s1600/IMG_3319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0unZeVV09Vo/VViuyvzf3aI/AAAAAAAAAW0/AGzEM9-xEbw/s320/IMG_3319.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br />Moths spiraling to a flame have nothing on people being drawn to the ocean. &nbsp;I suspect if I could finally grasp what pulls us to the sound of the surf collapsing against the shore, waves curling and white capping on themselves, &nbsp;I would have yet another of those intriguing little puzzle pieces that I hunt like buried treasure. &nbsp;What it does to us mentally, emotionally, spiritually, chemically...to stare out into that vast infinity of water, straining to see beyond the horizon, as if something we lost - or something we gnawingly anticipate - will suddenly appear along that picture perfect straight-edge. And solve a mystery.<br /><br />On my walk this morning, I saw a young lady in a state of complete mesmerization. &nbsp;I'm certain she was without and within thought simultaneously. &nbsp;There was no ocean and there was nothing but &nbsp;ocean. &nbsp;There was deafening surf and sheer silence. &nbsp;The sense of physical paralysis while hurtling through our solar system at a thousand miles an hour. &nbsp;Absolutely everything in the midst of irretrievable emptiness.<br /><br />I know nothing about this solitary human being. &nbsp;I could virtually write one hundred and one stories about her...change her age, her marital status, children or childless, a marine biologist with a slight lisp or a newlywed who just awoke to discover she had married a stranger. &nbsp;She is every-woman and she is one woman. &nbsp;She is body and she is soul.<br /><br />And for several seconds...a minute or two...she is one with all. &nbsp;The only thing that separates her &nbsp;from the sand between her toes, the salt water licking at her feet, the wind buffeting her face and stirring her hair, the distant clouds slipping down to taste the ocean...the only thing that separates her from the inhalation and exhalation of God's breath...is the density of the atoms in her body. &nbsp;How tightly packed they are. &nbsp;How well held together. &nbsp; Change that one simple thing and she becomes the sand and the sea and as subject to being blown about as a stray gull feather.<br /><br />And that oneness, that kinship, &nbsp;leads me to believe that perhaps what we seek where the sky meets the sea...or that mystical square footage just beyond the range of our eyes... is actually what we seek within ourselves. &nbsp;What we anticipate outwardly, we simultaneously ruminate inwardly. &nbsp;The rhythm of the waves is the rhythm of our body...the blood coursing through the one hundred thousand miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries. &nbsp;Thoughts skipping about our brains like shifting winds. &nbsp;Each breath its own wave curling over itself and receding to make room for the next. &nbsp;After all, there are more atoms in the human body that the combination of grains of sand on the planet and stars in the universe. &nbsp;Doesn't that count for something?<br /><br />Sea. &nbsp;Meet me. &nbsp;We are not so much different. &nbsp;We can hang.<br /><br /><br />When we find that unique peace in those moments of magnetic connectedness, as I suspect this random lady did...when we get our souls into the eternal rhythm of God's breath, when we define that space just beyond the horizon and, for at least a few seconds, &nbsp;meet the mystery face to face...isn't that the ultimate healing? &nbsp;Whether ocean side or in a quiet forest or beneath a brightly stitched night sky, when we lose ourselves, do we find ourselves? &nbsp;Could that be the coveted goal of our outward search and our internal quest? &nbsp;Could that be peace, love, and joy all rolled up into one? &nbsp;The Truth...capital T? &nbsp;I suspect so. <br /><br />I hope that random soul found some of that this morning. &nbsp;Especially Truth. &nbsp;I am in her debt now for she blessed me with fresh thought, renewed awakening, and a nice little glimpse of heaven.<br /><br />&nbsp;I pray she got a good solid look for herself.Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-72966010210152801142015-05-04T13:23:00.000-07:002015-05-04T13:23:32.074-07:00Lost and found<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0omkgZcI8iE/VUfRxyEFhTI/AAAAAAAAAWY/OP7CtKF2e9M/s1600/IMG_3103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0omkgZcI8iE/VUfRxyEFhTI/AAAAAAAAAWY/OP7CtKF2e9M/s320/IMG_3103.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Last week, there was a day of lost...but not found. &nbsp;A friend and I spent an entire day looking for a lost calf, slashing the pasture in straight lines and diagonals, from behind the wheel of an ATV and on foot. &nbsp;We were convinced that we searched every square foot of a 30 acre field, the ground obscured by red clover a foot high and spring grasses up to the knees. &nbsp;Undergrowth that could easily conceal an eighty pound newborn calf. &nbsp;We crossed the hot wire in several areas, around the pond, to the edge of and into the woods, into the bottom. Thinking that a newborn could stumble over the low voltage without missing a beat. &nbsp; It was a great day for looking - blue skies and slight breezes - but not a good day for finding. &nbsp;As the day wound down, &nbsp;we conceded that there was nowhere else to search and were required to accept the "coyote theory." &nbsp;That some time the night before, coyotes had slunk up from their dens at the river and dragged away the defenseless calf. &nbsp;Not a pretty picture but one we had to draw.<br /><br />A short back-story on the missing calf. &nbsp;My friend had put the mother up in the barn one evening since the weather was calling for flooding rains and possible tornadoes. &nbsp;She was close to giving birth and he didn't want to take any chances of her or her newborn getting injured. &nbsp;The problem was: &nbsp;he didn't know she had already given birth that day. &nbsp;When he released her from the barn the next morning, her older calf ran up to her and started suckling, confusing the momma cow into thinking that her older calf was her newborn. &nbsp;So momma cow didn't venture out into the pasture to try to locate her new calf. &nbsp;Letting that job fall to my friend and me. &nbsp;And we failed. But not for lack of trying.<br /><br />It's a sad story, but, during the search while my aching feet and legs covered acres of rolling land, I had plenty of time to think. &nbsp;And the story that came to mind was the parable that Jesus told about the lost sheep. &nbsp;And how the shepherd left the ninety-nine to go in search of the one. &nbsp;And of the great joy upon finding that single one out of an even one hundred.<br /><br />I've never admitted it, but I'm not sure that I ever fully understood the parable. &nbsp;I guessed that it was a simple concept but, as usual, I was always looking for something else...something hidden in the undergrowth.<br /><br />I felt many things during the search. &nbsp;Frustration ranked pretty close to the top of the list. &nbsp;Hope was embedded in there somewhere. &nbsp;Futility crept in every so often. &nbsp;But, strangely, each and everything that I felt was wrapped in something else. &nbsp;And that something else was love. &nbsp;Love for life in all its forms. &nbsp;Love for the calf that I had never laid eyes on. &nbsp;Love for things in need. &nbsp;And love for the connectedness of all things under the sky.<br /><br />Maybe that was all Jesus was saying when he talked about the lost sheep. &nbsp;That it isn't about the sheep at all. &nbsp;And not really about the shepherd. &nbsp;The search, though. &nbsp;That's different. &nbsp;Because the search signified a caring heart and the recognition that all things are precious. &nbsp;And worthy of effort. &nbsp;The search was, and is, an extension of love. &nbsp;My search said that something was important enough for me to leave my regular life behind - to allow the ninety-nine other things that were orbiting my existence to stay suspended in orbit for a little while - while I expended all my time and energy and, yes, love, on something else. &nbsp;Something that needed me. &nbsp;Something that couldn't help itself.<br /><br />And though I didn't find the calf or experience the joy of locating something that was lost, &nbsp;I found one more little universal puzzle piece. &nbsp;And, snapping it into place with a satisfying click, I became just a little more whole myself.<br /><br /><br />Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-8033086070870955932015-02-03T13:04:00.000-08:002015-02-05T15:57:01.625-08:00Little brother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AgE7GuxeDi4/VNQDN54Q_iI/AAAAAAAAAV0/AVuh-nP8lBs/s1600/Buddybike.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AgE7GuxeDi4/VNQDN54Q_iI/AAAAAAAAAV0/AVuh-nP8lBs/s1600/Buddybike.jpeg" height="320" width="286" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The room was cold…morgue cold.&nbsp; But that’s the way my brother wanted it, and it was his death, so crank it down to smoke house level, and I’m going to love it.&nbsp; He wanted it dark too.&nbsp; The blinds were shut tight, so tight that even at noon, just the barest sliver of sunlight seeped its way into the hospice room.&nbsp; And quiet…the television jutting from the wall was a mute appliance; voices wavered somewhere between normal and a whisper.&nbsp; That’s the way he wanted it, it was his death, and I was determined to be an advocate. &nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One sconce wall light emitted a pale glow toward the ceiling, and, with the door closed tight, darkness prevailed. &nbsp; His body had already begun to take on a waxy pallor, almost translucent…a delicate, ivory container of a soul restless to wander.&nbsp; His breath was the slightest of a snore.&nbsp; He awakened sporadically, or at least he appeared to awaken, his eyes barely focusing with just a ghost of a glint,&nbsp; his mouth barely moving, suggesting just a shadow of a smile.&nbsp; This wonderful man, this brother of mine, always bigger than life, always pleasantly loud, and with a presence that crowded the room in a comfortable way.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Where was he going, this brother of mine?&nbsp; I knew where he had been, I knew where he thought he would be going over the next several years of his life, the silver, golden, and platinum years, but melanoma stepped in and said, “Hey there, Buddy, hang on a minute.&nbsp; There’s been a change of plans.”&nbsp; My wife said that she was mad at the melanoma and I told here that hey, it’s just cancer being cancer.&nbsp; Truth told&nbsp;though, if I could have personified it, I would have grabbed it and choked the life out of it, and sent it back to the bowels of hell from whence it came.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I professed a lot of love over several hours.&nbsp; It wasn't the first time I told him I loved him, but I have to admit that the two of us only came to terms with terms of endearment late in life.&nbsp; But when it comes to expressing love, it may be late, but it doesn’t ever have to be too late.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I held his right hand.&nbsp; The one that I had shook so many times before we got comfortable with man hugs. &nbsp;If we ever did get comfortable with them.&nbsp; It was cold, really cold.&nbsp; And it made me think:&nbsp; you know, it just wasn’t right for him to be lying there in that bed.&nbsp; That’s not the territory that he was supposed to be exploring.&nbsp; He was supposed to be on the beach with his wife and Dude, the rescue dog, with Pearl, the rescue cat, waiting for them to return to their haven on St. George Island.&nbsp; He was supposed to be cleaning his pool or picking a stalk of goodies from his banana tree or checking the schedule to see what was on the tube for the evening.&nbsp; He was supposed to be walking and talking and breathing big, huge breaths of humid, salty Florida air.&nbsp; Or planning to head back to the farm on Champ Road in Kelso to help Deyton prep the seedlings for the upcoming planting season.&nbsp; Or sitting on the front porch of his cabin and gazing in the direction of the Elk River, wondering if the herons would return in the spring even though the tornado had turned their century old habitat into splintered and twisted ruins.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He wasn't supposed to be taking shallow breaths and making restless movements in a metal bed in the hospice wing of a hospital in Panama City, Florida.&nbsp; He wasn’t supposed to be battered and beaten by a nasty, aggressive cancer that made the fury of last year’s tornado appear as innocuous as a pesky April breeze.&nbsp; He wasn’t supposed to be dying in front of my eyes.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Little brothers aren’t supposed to die before big brothers.&nbsp; It’s the big brother’s job to see the little brother all the way through.&nbsp; Big brothers’ work doesn’t stop at holding onto the back of the bicycle until little brothers learn the physics of balance… running alongside them until they gain enough confidence…faster and faster…until the little brother says, “Hey, I got it!”&nbsp; Until he reaches that point of no return, and, if you love him, you let him go.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">&nbsp;It doesn’t stop at sideline coaching at Little League games.&nbsp; Big brothers don’t get to stop &nbsp;pacing the floor when little brothers with a brand new driver's license aren’t home at midnight or when you stand with them at the altar waiting on the love of their life to walk down the aisle or any of those times as adults when they ask for a little advice they don’t plan to heed anyway. &nbsp;It doesn't stop just because you're both north of sixty and with more wrinkles than hair.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div><br /><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Oh, I’m not saying it doesn’t happen.&nbsp; Because I’m here to tell you it does.&nbsp; I’m hear to tell you that little brothers sometimes leave this world before big brothers.&nbsp; Oh, yes, they do. And it isn't pretty but it is what it is.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So I’ll sit in that cold, dark, quiet room and listen to my little brother breathe.&nbsp; I’ll whisper I love him in case he can hear.&nbsp; I’ll pat his hand and kiss his forehead.&nbsp; I’ll hold on tight to the back of that strange ride he’s on...as he goes faster and faster... until I hear him say that he’s got it…until he reaches that point of no return.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">And then, because I do love him, I’ll let him go.</span></div>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2174768781714243091.post-51581127313818122432014-12-27T08:44:00.001-08:002014-12-27T10:37:18.626-08:00Re-tire-ment<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SLAx9I8mdjE/VJ7ht7kMnqI/AAAAAAAAAVM/6gEbkrMgCFQ/s1600/aurora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SLAx9I8mdjE/VJ7ht7kMnqI/AAAAAAAAAVM/6gEbkrMgCFQ/s1600/aurora.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">The online etymology dictionary tells us this about the word "retirement":</span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">retire (v.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">1530s, of armies, "to retreat," from Middle French retirer "to withdraw (something)," from re- "back" + old French tirer "to draw" (see tirade). &nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Meaning "to withdraw" to some place, especially for the sake of privacy, is recorded from 1530s; sense of "leave an occupation" first attested 1640s (implied in retirement). &nbsp;Meaning "to leave company and go to bed" is from the 1660s. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I suppose retirement is a little of all those things. &nbsp;Now, with nearly a full year under my belt, I wish I had volumes of wise thoughts and profound suggestions for those of you a year or a decade or several decades from retirement. &nbsp;Heck, I'd settle for being able to provide a few words of wisdom, but, unfortunately, deeper wisdom isn't something I can claim as a result of retirement.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I have retreated a bit. &nbsp;But to an introvert, that's not only natural, but it feels welcoming as well. &nbsp;Withdraw? &nbsp;I suppose. &nbsp;Though I would prefer the word "redraw" if there's such a word...as in redrawing priorities. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">What have I missed...being retired and all? &nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I would quickly say the "social" side of being employed. &nbsp;It likely makes some people smile, and others cringe, to realize and be comfortable with the fact that the majority of your life is spent with your co-workers. &nbsp;Your waking life anyway. &nbsp;If you do the math, you've got at least eight hours a day "at work," eight hours a day sleeping, and then the rest of the time is divided between non-work friends and social activities, traveling (sometimes for work) and family. &nbsp;And let me be quick to say that spending the time with these "work people" isn't a bad thing. &nbsp;I'd argue that much of who you are at the end of your work life is molded by these folks - your work family. &nbsp;That will be where the majority of your memories lie, like it or not.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">What else have I missed?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Well...the paycheck was pretty darn nice. &nbsp;I realize that many of you work for the sheer pleasure of it. &nbsp;Me? &nbsp;I worked for the moolah. &nbsp;Fortunately, I enjoyed what I did, so getting paid for something you enjoy doing is definitely a blessing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">What else?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">A sense of productivity. &nbsp;Which, I readily admit, can be satisfactorily replaced if I get off my rear end and do some or all of the things I said I was going to do when I retired. &nbsp;But, let me say this, it's been nice to be lazy. &nbsp;To have no goals to hit. &nbsp;To have no objectives to meet or exceed. &nbsp;To have no responsibility toward anyone but myself and those close to me. &nbsp;I figure that I owed myself a year of that.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">There is one thing I can tell you without hesitation. &nbsp;And this is something that has been percolating for the entire first year of my retirement. &nbsp;Something that has risen to the surface in all its glory and splendor. &nbsp;(the caveat here is that I don't expect any of you to accept this at my face value...you'll probably have to experience it for yourselves.) &nbsp;It's not deep. &nbsp;It's not wise. &nbsp;It's just fact. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">It is a waste of good brain cells to worry about whether you will have "enough money." You likely will, and, if you don't, folks are standing in line to hire the cheapest labor known in modern times: &nbsp;Baby Boomer retirees. &nbsp;What you will come to realize is that your continuing prayer will be that you will have enough time. &nbsp;Enough time to, in a fully unencumbered way, enjoy waking each morning to a fresh day...a brand new number on the calendar...a newly printed lease on life, with the ink still wet and glistening like morning dew. &nbsp;Enough time to laugh at the silly things that you once thought were so serious and important. &nbsp;Enough time to radiate in the smiles of friends and family. &nbsp;Enough time to curl up with a good book; take long, ground-grabbing strides though the woods or along the river; hold tightly to the hand of someone you love; or sit quietly at the ocean or atop a ridge or in a comfortable chair and just luxuriate in the glory of God.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Let me repeat...it ain't about the money. &nbsp;It's about the time. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Instead of dollars and cents, make my currency days and months and years.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">One more thing. &nbsp;If you're really up for a challenge, go and ahead and start practicing some of those retirement activities now...you know, the ones that don't require a red cent to enjoy. &nbsp;And that bring priceless joy to your life. &nbsp;Go ahead and practice a little unencumberedness. &nbsp;It'll give you a leg up when your retirement genie knocks on the door. &nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Sort of a preview of coming distractions.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Happy New Year - all.</span></span></div>Doughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00394944663686977483noreply@blogger.com0